


Cypress, Evergreen

by AnonymousPuzzler



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (read: I Don't Think Anyone In This Fanfiction Is Straight), Developing Relationship, Discussion of Sexual Orientation, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen, Local Scientists Accidentally Sort Of Adopt A Boy, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Female Character - Freeform, Original Male Character - Freeform, Original trans male character - Freeform, Trans Male Character, discussion of mental health issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-01-12 02:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPuzzler/pseuds/AnonymousPuzzler
Summary: Five months after the closure of the breach, they hire on Stefan Cypress.Newton sets down his chopsticks, and leans across the table, grinning wildly in that way he does just before he says something particularly infuriating. “Hermann. That kid isexactlylike you.”---In which the K-science team takes on something of a mentoring project.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Woah boy. This fic has consumed no less than a month of my time and energy so far, ballooned from a quick character study to a multi-chapter epic, and boy do I have to do some explaining before letting you dive right in.
> 
> Some years ago, my dear buddy Jang and I developed a pair of OCs: mine, Squarewave, the peppy pink lesbian dancing queen with an unfortunate propensity for Crimes, and his, Sawtooth, a former science-major dropout with bad legs, a permanent scowl, and self-esteem issues driving him to poor decisions.
> 
> Fast forward to watching Pacific Rim, and naturally, I thought that Saw might have a fun character dynamic with the K-sci boys - and Hermann in particular, given the astounding and almost entirely coincidental similarities between them. Just for fun, to amuse myself and Jang alone, I decided to write up a quick little drabble to play with the interactions and see where it went.
> 
> Where it went was this multi-chapter beast of a fanfic full of (what I think are) really good character beats, an interesting exploration of relationships, and overall Pretty Decent Content. At fifty-something pages and counting at time of writing, I thought it was high time to share this with the world at large.
> 
> Tl;dr, it's a weird one, I know, but dang it I adore this fic and this verse. I hope it ends up being fun for y'all too. If it is, please send your thanks and appreciation to Jang (@jaypg9 on twitter, plebeiantologist on tumblr), for not only creating Saw but for beta-reading, encouraging the production of this fic, and just overall being a cool guy who creates really good and inspiring content. Similar shoutout to Jake (@HybridBlood on twitter) for beta-reading and being generally enthusiastic about the adventures of k-scientists and their new gay son.

When it had happened — the kaiju _gone_ , the war clock no longer counting down, the whole thing finally, blessedly over — there had been, quite understandably, question over what was to happen next. Most had resigned themselves to the impending shutdown of the PPDC, happily or unhappily. After all, what purpose was there for them in peacetime?

Except, that was just it. While the world, and even much of the PPDC, had rejoiced in finally winning the war, Hermann and Newton had looked at each other through the exhilaration and the exhaustion and the nightmares and the desperate, aching hope that it could finally be over, and they knew. They knew what they had studied, what they had _seen_ , and they knew, deep down, that their hard-earned peace had the potential to be fleeting.

Hermann had been released from medical after three days, with a clean bill of physical health and a new prescription to help combat post-traumatic episodes. He’d immediately retreated to the lab, scraped up papers and notebooks and hard drives and his laptop, and dragged them all back to the emergency wing to work by Newton’s side for the remaining week he was kept under watch. (He’d gathered, between overheard conversations, Newton’s reluctant discussions, and the drift-bleed bond that had manifested between them, that the combination of the two drifts and Newton’s preexisting mental health issues had left his mind in a state apparently worth concern. Most of the stay had consisted of MRI scans, psychiatric evaluations, and general coddling, to Newt’s great irritation and embarrassment. “Another one to add to the collection,” he’d joked, though between his expression and the betrayal of the drift-bond, Hermann could tell it was a feeble way to deflect from his very real discontent. “Bipolar, Borderline, ADHD, and now PTSD in the mix too. Hey, you think I can work my way up to six to match the PhDs? It’d only be two more, I bet you anything I got at _least_ that much rattling around up here.”)

They had already made a significant dent in interpreting the Breach data from the final attack by the time Newton was set free. That night, they’d returned to Hermann’s quarters, Newt’s arms full of junk food (“The stuff in the medical wing was _shit_ , I need Doritos to _live_ , Hermann,”) and they’d pored over their findings, editing and evaluating and bickering (they finished each other’s sentences, now, even when they were arguing, the drift-bleed filling in the blanks for them) until, finally, they’d dozed off on the couch and only woke up some twelve hours later.

Their work was not done. Hermann, despite significant efforts to do so, could not yet find patterns in his data that might have allowed him to predict the Breach’s initial opening before it happened. Between Newton and himself, they reached the conclusion that the Breach was opened intentionally by — the _Precursors_ , they state in unison, the name left burned into them both, another horrific token of their maiden voyage into the kaiju hivemind.

They came to the mutual, horrifying understanding that — perhaps not soon, and perhaps not _absolutely_ , but possible, terrifyingly _possible_ — the Breach could, one day, open anew.

Hermann was reluctant to present their findings, however crucial it might have been to do so. Acting Marshall Hercules Hansen had just lost a son to the last days of war. It would seem beyond disrespectful, salt in the wound, to suggest that his sacrifice was not to save the world for good, but merely to stall it for a time. “But we have to,” they had agreed in unison, neither thrilled, both resigned. It was a disgusting and cruel thing to do, but not nearly as cruel as to leave the world unawares until thrust back into that hell (or _worse;_ next time had the potential to be impossibly worse, and that terrified them both).

To his credit, Hansen heard them out without fuss, nodded solemnly at the end of the presentation, and thanked him for bringing it to his attention. Within a week he had set up meetings with the UN, sometimes bringing Newt and Hermann in to relay their theories directly, demanding continued funding for the PPDC, but most especially, an increased budget for their research division. “In order to prevent future tragedy,” Hermann had argued, hoping to God that his voice wasn’t shaking as he spoke, “we must understand how this happened in the first place. By uncovering the secrets of the Breach’s opening, in combination with continued studies of our limited Anteverse data to reach an understanding of our enemy, we may both be informed well in advance of a potential future Breach, _and_ be prepared for anything that might try to make it through and threaten our world anew.”

He and Newton hadn’t been in there for the worst of it. He was told that there’d been screaming matches, Hansen fighting tooth and nail for his crew. The Wall of Life project had been used as ammunition against the UN on multiple occasions, something Hermann finds something of a sick pride in. (He hopes his father, wherever he is, is ashamed of himself for supporting the bloody thing.) But a few weeks later, Marshall Hansen, looking haggard but smug, had arrived unexpectedly in their lab to deliver the news: the PPDC was to remain open, and their research was to be at the forefront of their continued operation.

Newton had dragged Hermann out for celebratory drinks that night, and he barely even resisted. It was the first time since the closing of the Breach that he truly felt victorious. It was the first time in _years_ their department would have more than a shoestring budget and a skeleton crew.

(“Do you think they’ll put us in our own labs?” Newton asked after his third beer, too tipsy to hide his obvious sadness at the very thought.

“It would be a waste of resources to do so,” Hermann retorted. “There is plenty of space in our current lab, and building or retrofitting another room to house one of our fields would be a significant investment. Money better spent on supplies and staff.”

He was actually thinking about how quiet, how _lonely_ , it would be to work without Newt’s racket across the room. He knew, distantly, that Newton must have been perfectly aware of this thinking through their drift-bleed, but the gin and tonics he’d been drinking had left him feeling pleasantly fuzzy, so he couldn’t bring himself to care.

They’d intended to go back to the lab and work through the rest of the night afterwards, but twenty minutes in it became clear they were too drunk and too sleepy to get anything done. Newton had dug out an air mattress from under his desk — “You know, for those overnight experiments!” — and they slept on that rather than try to stumble back to their rooms. Hermann awoke the next morning hungover but pleasantly warm, Newton curled up against his chest, and had realized this was the first time since their drift that he hadn’t even the faintest traces of nightmares for the entirety of his slumber.)

 

\---

 

Five months after the closure of the breach, they hire on Stefan Cypress.

He makes Hermann uncomfortable, perhaps even a touch annoyed, for reasons he can’t quite articulate. Stefan is six feet tall with gangly limbs, so thin that his entire torso appears concave from the ribs down. He has sharp features and what appears to be a permanent scowl. Under his slightly out-of-fashion eyeglasses is one discolored eye, which Hermann later learns he is mostly blind in. His hair is forest green and meticulously sculpted and styled into some hideous lovechild of a mullet, mohawk, and pompadour, and he wears wristbands and cargo pants and a graphic tank top; the whole combination reminds Hermann of old photos he’d uncovered of a young Newton, from the era of juggling his second PhD with pop-punk band gigs. His accent, on the few occasions he speaks, carries the faintest traces of an Eastern European accent not yet worn away by English, in much the same way Hermann can feel the distant influences of German in his own tongue.

He is a geologist. A volcanologist, more specifically, but _young_ , only twenty-four (twelve years his junior, Hermann realizes, suddenly feeling very ancient), fresh out of field school with, surprisingly, only middling grades. “He came _highly_ recommended,” Marshall Hansen explained when they were first told of the hire, in a tone that screams _the stupid UN made me do it_. Which means, most likely, Stefan’s family had connections and hoisted him off on the PPDC, which Hermann can’t help but grimace thinking about.

Yet, all that said, he does some cursory research into the application and hiring paperwork, and finds that many of Mr. Cypress’ teachers had legitimately good things to say about him, despite the barely-passing credits in some of his courses. “Hardest worker I’ve ever known,” wrote one professor, and “dedicated to and passionate about his field,” another. One had even raved that Stefan was “the quietest, most low-maintenance student I’ve ever had.” It, at the very least, gives him some measure of hope that Stefan won’t be entirely useless as a part of the research team.

His focus is to be on interpreting seismographs and related data, helping to determine if earthquakes or tectonic movements might have been an early predictor of the Breach. Newton has already spoken of poaching him for some side-projects, of course, something about investigating the potential of kaiju as terraformers, though Hermann suspects he’s making up excuses to chuck volcanic rocks at kaiju bodily fluids to see what happens.

Though Stefan is far from their only new hire, his particular expertise requires him to work with Newton and Hermann more as a… not as a _peer_ , exactly, he’s still young and comparatively inexperienced (“He doesn’t even have _one_ PhD yet,” Newton had sighed to Hermann, mockingly disappointed, when they went over his paperwork. “I think I was already on the third by the time I was his age.”), but closer to such than the other lab assistants and various underlings. And _this_ is where Hermann starts to find himself growing more and more annoyed with the boy — the praise from his professors was not _uncalled for_ , not in the least; Stefan is clearly a knowledgeable young man who finds real meaning in his field of study. But he has come to suspect that a great deal of their admiration of him came from the way Stefan is built for academia in all the worst ways: inflexibly rigid and _painfully_ dependent on direction. He stands at attention through conversations, and hangs on every comment and suggestion as if it were an urgent order. Hermann suspects he hasn’t submitted a single bit of research without it first seeing an extensive overview and approval by one or _both_ of the two doctors.

“It’s an absolute _waste of my time_ , Newton,” he fumes one night over dinner, stabbing at a prawn with his chopsticks as if it was somehow its fault. (Newt had insisted on a once-a-week meal outside the Shatterdome as soon as the shops in town began reopening, “because otherwise we’ll just hole up in the lab twenty-four seven and forget how to be _human_ , Hermann, remember how being a person works?” He’d complained at first, but secretly, had come to look forward to it every week.) “I’m a _physicist_ , for goodness’ sakes, not a geologist. I don’t know what he _expects_ , having me look over every little scrap of research before he’ll dare upload it. He may be a greenhorn, but the boy is _certainly_ old enough to take some bloody _initiative_ —”

“Dude,” Newton grins, nonchalant. He hadn’t been able to decide between a soupy noodle dish and curry, and Hermann _may_ have subtly encouraged him to just say _to hell with it_ and try out both. (So sue him; there’s something about a plump and overfed Newton that he finds… oddly comforting.) “Dude.”

“ _Dude,_ ” Hermann repeats, mocking, and does his resolute best to ignore Newton’s absolute _delight_ at hearing the word through his lips. “I cannot fathom why you’re not as irritated by all this as I am. Mine is not the _only_ research being slowed down by his dithering.”

“ _Dude,_ ” Newt says again, and he can tell he’s doing it just to annoy him at this point. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Hermann blinks. “I don’t follow.”

“Why you’re so annoyed by the kid. You really haven’t figured it out, huh?”

Hermann’s brow furrows. “I _believe_ I just went on at length about _exactly_ why. He—”

“Keeps demanding validation while you’re in the middle of your very important math boners, yeah yeah yeah yeah.” He waves a hand dismissively and turns his attention momentarily to the noodles, gulping some down with an obnoxious _slurp._ The curry is already mostly gone. “That’s not why you’re all in a huff about him, though. Not _really_ , I mean.”

“Well then _do_ enlighten me, if you’re so sure you know my mind better than I.”

Newton sets down his chopsticks, and leans across the table, grinning wildly in that way he does just before he says something particularly infuriating. “Hermann. That kid is _exactly_ like _you._ ”

It takes a long second before Hermann can figure out the proper reaction for _that_ particular proposition. He ends up landing on a hissed, indignant, _“What.”_

“You’re practically _twins!”_ Newt crows, flopping back down in his seat and stirring the noodle dish as he speaks. “Think about it. He’s a pale, gangly, skinny guy with an accent. He’s super invested in his work. Like, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen him go out or hang with people. He’s all prim and proper and I swear to god, Hermann, he gives me the _exact_ same look of disgust when I dig into samples without gloves as _you_ do.”

“Disdain for improper lab safety is merely good taste,” he retorts, but something about the conversation makes him fidget subtly, uncomfortably, in his chair. “And we are _hardly_ alike. I certainly _never_ required the sheer amount of hand-holding he seems to seek out—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. Guess the need for validation is more of a _me_ thing,” Newt concedes, disarmingly honest in the way he’s increasingly become around Hermann these past few months. “Certainly got my good fashion sense, too, thank g— _wait_ ,” he says suddenly, slamming his chopsticks down again, looking at Hermann with a wide-eyed mania that _never_ means anything good. “Hermann, oh my _god_. Is Stefan our _kid??_ I think Stefan’s our fucking _lovechild_.”

Hermann chokes on a prawn. “Our _wh_ —”

“Hermann!!” Newt all but shrieks, reaching over again to clap both hands down over one of Hermann’s, looking absolutely _delighted_ at his ridiculous and tasteless new joke. “Oh, Hermann, how could I not have _realized._ Your stuffiness, my fashion sense, it’s so _obvious._ How could you not _tell_ me, Hermann, my own son here in our _lab_ —”

“We are in _public_ ,” he spits, face hot, glancing around and hoping no one else notices the absolute _scene_ Newton’s making. (He does not attempt to remove his hand.)

“You’ve let him get so skinny, our beautiful son,” Newt says mournfully. “I’ll bring him back home with us, fix him a hot meal. Fatten him back up.”

“You absolutely _will not.”_ In the back of his mind, though, Hermann recalls Stefan’s convex figure and does feel the slightest pang of concern, and after a second he realizes, under all the blustering, that Newt is feeling much the same through the drift-bleed. Still. A mutual worry over a coworker’s health did _not_ mean Hermann was eager to invite him over for dinner, _especially_ not when Newton would certainly bombard the poor man with jokes about being their — _lovechild._

Newt snickers and finally sits back down, returning his attention to what’s left of the noodles. (He releases Hermann’s hand to do so. Hermann is _not_ disappointed.) “Come on, even _you_ have to admit that it’s kinda funny,” he presses, though now Hermann can sense the legitimate concern forming the underbelly of his jovial grin. “Dude joins the crew and he’s, like, a perfect halfway between us. What are the odds?”

“He’s hardly a _perfect halfway,”_ Hermann grumbles, turning back to his own meal. Still, though he’d never admit as such to Newton (he’s sure he’ll dig it up through the drift nonetheless and be delighted), he _does_ have to admit the resemblance now that it’s been pointed out. Entirely a coincidence, though, and certainly not the true deciding factor behind his annoyance.

...besides. There’s a resemblance, but they’re not _that_ alike.

Not at all.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Please note before reading!!** This chapter includes some in-universe acknowledgement that Stefan is trans, and specifically an instance of his (jerk) parents deadnaming him in a letter. This is the first and last time this happens in the fic, so I wanted to make sure it was pointed out so it doesn't take anyone by surprise.
> 
> Other than that, nothing but ambiguously gay scientists and awkward attempts at supportive mentorship this chapter. I hope you enjoy! (Also, as before, please go give @jaypg9 / plebeiantologist some love for lending me his boy and generally supporting this fic!!)

It’s another week before he notices. Newton has been called out to the field and brought a decent chunk of their assistants with them, so the lab is mostly empty and exceptionally quiet, which Hermann is blaming for his particular distractibility these past few days.

The unnatural silence has also made him rather hyper-aware of the one person of note remaining in residence. Stefan seems terrified of making any noise, shuffling about tensely and remaining perched at his desk for long periods, as if afraid to move and risk attracting attention. Hermann can’t help but begin to notice just how _anxious_ the man is in his every action. It’s as if he’s seeking approval in every little thing he does, not just in the reports he shuttles over to Newt or Hermann every few weeks to review.

Hermann wants to be annoyed at the apparently-pervasive need for constant validation this young man has. Instead, it begins to bleed over into very real concern. After all, seeking approval on his studies is mildly annoying, but relatively understandable; seeking approval for _the way he moves_ crosses the line into _something is wrong here._

It’s on the second day without Newton that he picks up on it. They’ve been sent in some new rock samples that require organizing, which has forced Stefan to get up and move about the room rather than hide in the corner at his desk all day. Back and forth he’s gone, arms full of samples and gear, yet still keeping as quiet as possible. Normally Hermann would be buried in his work and only take the vaguest notice of the young man walking around, but, well. Regrettably, he’s adapted to Newton’s constant racket to the point that trying to work _without_ it leaves him unfocused and antsy (good leg bouncing; another’s nervous tic made manifest).

So he lets himself be distracted, glances up to watch Stefan work, and that’s when he notices. The unsteady gait, the stiffness in his movements, the slight grimace in his expression.

The vague, yet-unplaced familiarity of it.

“Mr. Cypress,” he calls out, and Stefan flinches at the sound, nearly dropping his box of samples as he whips around with wide eyes. Always snapping to attention when he’s called, fully and undivided. Something about it continues not to sit well with him. “Are you quite all right?”

The man looks as if he’s been _struck_. He straightens out, forces on an impassive, professional expression, and tightly replies, “Yes, Doctor, of course. I— is there something I have forgotten to do, sir? My apologies—”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Hermann replies, attempting to wave him off. “Continue your work.” Stefan nods, and all but lunges back into it, a certain frantic nature to his expression.

Hermann watches him idly, subtly, for a while longer, and then it clicks. The tension in his body, the heaviness of his motions, the slight drag of a leg.

_Ah._ Of course. There had been a time, once, where he too was young and proud, when he’d tried to push his body far beyond its limits in the misguided hope that no one would look at him like he needed help. Luckily he’d grown out of the mindset quickly, before his body could be too badly damaged by his pride, coming to accept and appreciate the support of his cane. Stefan, apparently, is yet to reach that point in his own journey.

Well. Perhaps they really _were_ more alike than he’d thought.

(He wonders if Stefan has a cane. He wonders if he’d accept one of his spares if he offered. Not that he will, because it would likely come off as patronising, and besides, it’s none of his business anyway. Stefan is one of his employees and nothing more. He’s not going to get involved in the boy’s life.)

The last day before Newton returns, having spent much of it watching Stefan’s anxious movements and occasionally, when finally nervously requested, consulting on a piece of his work or two, Hermann decides to try a little test.

Stefan stands before his desk, trying to look cool-faced and proper, but Hermann can see him wringing his hands nervously just out of his direct line of sight. He’s staring down at some analyses of the latest round of seismographs, and really, everything looks properly done. It’s somewhat uninspired research, certainly, rote and by-the-book, but it’s _correct_. Any other day, he’d restrain an eye-roll and hand it back to the boy with a _it looks fine, Stefan, as usual, go right ahead and upload._

But today, he’s going to test something.

He takes his pen and circles one figure, watching as Stefan’s eyes follow anxiously, posture tensing further. “I believe this number is incorrect,” he says, ignoring the bitterness in his throat at the bald-faced lie. “You’ll want to use this formula, of course. It may be worth double-checking the rest of the findings using it as well.”

And then he writes out a relatively basic distance-time formula on the paperwork, with the notable difference of it being utterly, completely _wrong._ Fully, entirely, nonsensically _wrong_ , factors all jumbled-up and variables in the wrong places and just, really, utter bullshit in every possible sense. Any self-respecting scientist could tell it was wrong. A _child_ could probably tell it was wrong. Even a sufficiently-trained _monkey_ could probably suspect something wasn’t right. And, most crucially of all, he is one-hundred percent positive that _Stefan_ knows it’s wrong; he’s seen him utilize the correct formula several times over in weeks’ worth of prior work. Just _seeing_ himself write out the complete and utter mistake and present it as anything else makes Hermann’s stomach churn, but there is method to his madness, so he underlines the garbage formula decisively and hands the paperwork back off to Stefan.

To his relief, the boy looks sufficiently horrified as he skims over the page. He knows it’s wrong. There is absolutely no denying he knows it’s utter garbage. And surely, Hermann thinks, surely he will feel obligated to say as such, because really, it would be mad to go back and run his figures anew using this formula.

But instead, Stefan swallows thickly, nods, and says, “Of course, sir. Forgive my mistake. I will run the numbers again.”

And then he retreats skittishly to his desk to do just that, leaving Hermann gaping in disbelief.

He knew it was wrong. He _knew_ it was wrong, without a fraction of a doubt. And yet even then he would not dare speak a word against him. Deference to superiors to the point of self-destruction.

Hermann’s continues to feel slightly ill, this time for an entirely different reason.

 

\---

 

The flat that evening is as quiet as the lab. Newton’s not due to return until nearly five in the morning, and Hermann has long since grown tired of filling the silence with old episodes of _Star Trek_ and _House Hunters_. It is, perhaps, inevitable that he would let the prying claws of morbid curiosity overwhelm him.

With a heavy sigh and immediate regret, he opens his laptop and Googles _Stefan Cypress_.

There are shockingly few results. A passing mention in some newspaper articles, one from his time as a university student, another mentioning his application to a field school in Hawaii. (Hawaii? During the war? Stefan is either far braver or far more foolish than he imagined.) A Facebook page — privatized, so he cannot access the vast majority of it — that looks as if it hasn’t been updated for several years. A tagged photo with no matching profile on the Instagram feed of someone whose name is but a string of obnoxiously bright emoticons. (He skims over the dark-skinned, pink-haired girl in the profile photo and thinks he may have seen her fleetingly around the Shatterdome, though another distant familiarity that he can’t seem to place claws at the back of his mind.) All in all, Stefan’s online presence is exceedingly minimal; if Newton were here, he’d likely comment it was as if the boy had sprung into existence fully-formed only a few years ago.

Hermann considers. He knows, deep down, that this whole venture is foolish and he really ought to just quit now. Beside him, his phone buzzes, and he lets his attention be taken up by a quick text conversation with Newton (on his way back and exceptionally seasick; Hermann chides him for not bringing his Dramamine as he’d reminded him to, and Newt responds by calling him a nag and sending a long string of crude emoticons).

The room is still far too quiet.

Hermann amends his search to just _Cypress._ The results instantly change to botanical information, gardening magazines, and the like, much to his irritation. He tries again, several times over — _Cypress person, S Cypress, Cypress family_ — and ends up with results that, while not immediately relevant and still clogged up with articles on coniferous trees, are at least mildly more useful. Some of the individuals he stumbles upon, he suspects may be relations; most are originally from Russia, which explains Stefan’s accent, and in the photos he finds, many of them share his cool gaze and sharp features. He finds two individuals in particular that he theorizes may be the boy’s parents, bearing a particularly uncanny resemblance. They’re lawyers, he discovers. Most of the family is, and ones of particular note to boot, which explains how they were able to pull strings and get Stefan hired by the PPDC fresh out of field school.

(Hermann is reminded, briefly, uncomfortably, of his father. He shoves the thought aside.)

There is little mention of their children, and no mention at all of a son. Hermann begins to wonder if the resemblance is a coincidence, or if perhaps Stefan took particularly after a cousin or aunt. Then he finds a newspaper article, long archived from over two decades ago; it’s a birth announcement from the couple he thought so resembled Stefan, celebrating the birth of their first child, a daughter.

The birthdate matches Stefan’s from the job application.

Hermann closes the browser, snaps the laptop shut and nearly throws it aside. He has dug too deep and seen things he should never have seen. He will not be doing this again.

(It provides a decent explanation for the young man’s nerves, but he pushes the thought aside regardless. It is none of his business, and he’s quite ashamed at having stumbled upon it at all. He doubts Stefan would have shared this information willingly, and he more than deserves that privacy.

He'll forget it, he decides, shove the information to the very back of his mind and do all he can to proceed as if he never learned it. Stefan is already such an anxious young man. Hermann would be loathe to treat him any differently simply because he'd stuck his nose where it didn't belong.)

 

\---

 

At some point in the night he dozes off (still on the couch; his hip will surely be screaming at him for that come morning), only waking up at the first tinges of sunrise through the window and Newton staggering into the flat, practically dragging his bags across the floor behind him. “I threw up twice on the boat,” he croaks by way of greeting, looking very much like he might collapse any second.

“Poor darling,” Hermann replies, trying his best to be sarcastic but sounding too fond for it to be effective. “You best wash up and get some rest. I trust you’ll be taking a recovery day before joining us back in the lab.”

Newton nods, eyes barely open. “You know it. Will you stay here with me?”

And _oh_ , there’s that terrifying vulnerability again, the one that never stops taking Hermann by surprise. For a moment, he’s tempted — the assistants could probably get by a day without them, and Newton would obviously appreciate the company, and he could probably use a break himself, but — “No, Newton,” he sighs, already regretful. “ _One_ of us ought to be the responsible one and go lead the troops. But behave yourself while I’m gone and perhaps I’ll consider getting takeaway after work.”

“You better,” Newton grins, bumping Hermann affectionately with his shoulder on his way to bed.

There’s really no point in him going back to sleep at that point, so Hermann putters around some, takes a painkiller to soothe his aching hip, showers, peeks into Newton’s room to check on him (thoroughly asleep already, enough so that he doesn’t even stir when Hermann gives in to sentimentality and goes to tuck him in), and ends up arriving at the Shatterdome early. Very little staff is wandering the halls at this hour, and the lab is entirely empty, making the eerie quiet that much moreso.

He sees the paperwork with his garbage equation still on Stefan’s desk as he walks by. He resists the urge to swipe it into the garbage like an irritated cat.

About twenty minutes after he arrives (during which he’d mostly skimmed through some files and fiddled absentmindedly with some coding), another Shatterdome staff member arrives with mail and, seeing that someone is actually present in the lab at this early hour for once, simply hands off the pile rather than attempt to sort it all and puzzle out whose desk is whose. Hermann gives a curt thanks and begins to sift through the stack. Two for him, one for Newton, one each addressed to two names that he thinks are assistants on the K-bio side, one for one of his programming assistants, another for him, another for Newton…

One in a envelope that he can tell is part of a fine stationery set, _Mr. and Mrs. Cypress_ printed neatly as the senders.

The envelope is addressed to a _Stefanie Cypress_.

Hermann’s blood _boils_ , so much so that he thinks he feels Newton momentary snap awake at the other end of their drift-bond line. He wants to burn it. He wants to tear it into shreds and stomp the bloody thing into the garbage so that no one, especially _Stefan, his name is_ **_Stefan_** , has to see it. But he can’t, he _knows_ he can’t, it would be _incredibly_ unprofessional, and besides, for all he know the letter is full of critically important information despite the _heinously_ disrespectful address.

He puts the letter on Stefan’s desk, facedown and tucked away in a far corner. He then proceeds to print out some arbitrary paperwork and studies and stack them on top, hiding the damned thing underneath, partially so no one else will possibly see it before Stefan and partially in the hopes that Stefan won’t have to see it at all. He’ll be putting in a request with the mailroom posthaste, he decides, asking them — nay, _demanding_ — to have Stefan’s mail sent directly to his bunk, so accursed missives such as these are seen by as few people as possible.

(He has decided, quite emphatically, that he hates the Cypresses. He wonders if they spoke to his father when they were trying to foist off their son on the PPDC.)

“...Mr. Cypress,” he says later, towards the tail end of the day, when several of the assistants have already retired for the evening, only he and Stefan still particularly buried in their work. Stefan jumps, as he always seems to do when he’s called, and in a moment has scrambled to the side of Hermann’s desk, waiting attentively for directions. (He’s walking heavily again, Hermann notes. He can’t help but wonder how badly his legs must hurt.) “Have you been enjoying your work here thus far?”

Stefan blinks. He looks utterly baffled by the question. “I— o-of course, sir, yes,” he answers quickly, too quickly, no true passion behind it. “I am beyond grateful for the opportunities I have been given. Have… has my work not been satisfactory? I am happy to make any changes—”

“No, no, your work has been fine,” Hermann sighs, resisting the urge to rub his temples. That wasn’t the question he’d asked at all. Had anyone ever asked this boy if he was _happy_ before? (He remembers the letter, despite himself, and realizes no, they probably haven’t.) “You needn’t concern yourself so much with the quality of your work, Mr. Cypress, it has been consistently satisfactory. But I should like to know that you are enjoying what you are doing. If you are not, New— ...Doctor Geiszler and I will gladly provide you new projects to better suit your interests. That is as important to us at this point as the final results.”

Stefan shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “If— if you require me to work on a different project, I shall start immediately,” he answers, again thoroughly missing the point. “I will gladly do whatever you need of me to the best of my ability, Doctor.”

“Of course.” Hermann tries very hard not to sound bitter, as he suspects Stefan would take that as a personal failing. “Of course. Please continue your current work, then. I shall be heading out for the night shortly, so feel free to clock out whenever you like.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” And then he’s skittering back to his desk without another word.

(He looks so thin, so young, so _small,_ six feet tall and folding himself up to take up as little space as possible. He still wears the graphic tank-tops and, as far as Hermann’s seen, does not seem to own a jacket. He thinks about Newton’s comment from a week ago, how Stefan is always working and he’s never seen him spending time with peers or friends.

Hermann still cannot tell if he is happy here. Why has no one ever asked this boy if he is happy?

The stack of paperwork from this morning is still exactly where he left it, the letter nowhere in sight. Hermann is quietly, privately grateful. He hopes Stefan never moves it.)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces Square!! Square is my li'l lesbian and I love her! I hope you guys have fun reading her scenes because they were a blast to write.
> 
> [Here's](https://anonymouspuzzler.tumblr.com/post/163894740088/well-its-been-500-years-but-i-finally-did-like-an) an old post I wrote on Square as an oc (well outdating this fic concept, like "at least a year and a half" outdating) if any of y'all happen to be interested in her, and likewise here's [one of my boy Jang's posts on Saw](https://plebeiantologist.tumblr.com/post/183998106011/mods-r-asleep-post-ur-team-skull-ocs) as well as [his dedicated Sawtooth tag](https://plebeiantologist.tumblr.com/tagged/the-sawtooth-tag).
> 
> Thanks again for reading!!

Hermann half-wakes to a quiet kind of _itch_ in the back of his mind in the middle of the night, but elects to ignore it and go back to sleep. This proves a mistake.

By the time he actually wakes up some hours later, he can hear commotion in the kitchen, and exits his room to discover enough brownies to feed half the Shatterdome. “I, uh, might have had a little bit of a manic episode last night,” Newton sheepishly admits, pulling another batch from the oven. “And I thought, you know what’d be great? Brownies! Brownies would be great. And then I spent like seven hours making brownies. But, hey, great news: we can have brownies for breakfast!”

Hermann sighs heavily, but not-so-secretly, he’s actually quite grateful. Newton’s last major manic episode had resulted in Hermann being awoken in the dead of night to a frantic phone call, because somehow Newton had decided taking a walk through Hong Kong at one in the morning was a great idea, and lo and behold, he’d gotten lost in a bad part of town. An upsetting amount of brownies, in comparison, was something of a blessing.

Still. Brownies are not breakfast, and he tells Newton as such, and they bicker about that, and then Newton eats four brownies right there at the kitchen table just to spite him.

That night, Newton has a self-proclaimed “brilliant idea” and grabs a bunch of old handkerchiefs and fabric scraps, and spends the rest of the evening lovingly bundling up bunches of brownies to bring in to their coworkers. “I bet Mako and Raleigh’ll love ‘em, and you _know_ Tendo’s got a sweet tooth,” he babbles, “and I’ll throw a big tupperware thing’s worth together to leave in the lab, you know, let the assistants fight over ‘em, and you think Hansen would like brownies? What am I saying, everyone likes brownies. Hansen’s getting brownies.”

Hermann gives a distracted hum of approval, thinking little of it besides _thank God, yes, please, we don’t need twelve batches of brownies in our flat._ This is, as with most things he allows Newton to do without direct supervision, a terrible idea.

The next day, he’s gotten himself so wrapped up in a coding project (they’ve been refining the Jaegers in-between bouts of Breach research, and he’s hit something of a wave of inspiration on that front) that he doesn’t notice someone standing by his desk until there’s a shaky, hesitant, “um.” He blinks and glances up, peering over his reading glasses, to find Stefan, standing nervously at attention in the way he does when he needs something but is too afraid to ask. For a moment Hermann assumes he’s got another round of research he wants checked over before uploading, but then he notices what’s in Stefan’s hands.

It’s a familiar handkerchief-wrapped bundle. Which is bad enough in and of itself, but then he spots the note that’s been pinned to it: _“For Stefan_ — _Dr. Dads G + G.”_

(He is going to _strangle_ Newton.)

“I am,” Stefan starts, and trails off, clearing his throat nervously. “Please do not consider me ungrateful, because I am quite the opposite. But, ah. I am. I am uncertain if it is quite proper for me to accept this? Professionally speaking, of course—”

Hermann can’t stop himself from sighing heavily. Of _course_ , poor Stefan receives a load of nonsense like this and believes _he’s_ the one behaving improperly. “I’m afraid propriety has never once been a concern for Doctor Geiszler, as I’m sure a bright lad like yourself has observed by now,” he says by way of apology. “Regardless, I see no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to accept, though you’re certainly not obligated to by any means.”

“Ah.” Stefan nods, and bites his lip. (His teeth are sharp, chipped and crowded and uneven, Hermann notes. He wonders if that’s why the boy is constantly scowling, trying to hide them from view.) “Well. I, ah, shall thank you, then, sirs. I hope you did not go to any especial trouble—?”

“Newton— er, Doctor Geiszler went on a bit of a baking spree,” Hermann assures the boy, waving a hand dismissively. (It’s gotten harder and harder to catch himself lately, with regards to staying _professional_ in his public references to Newton. He really ought to be better, especially among their lab staff. There are already enough rumors about the two of them as it is; _entirely baseless_ rumors, he might add, but rumors nevertheless.) “He thought it would be preferable to gift some to our friends among the Shatterdome, as opposed to letting the excess clutter our flat. Think nothing of it.”

Stefan looks momentarily, chillingly _frightened_ , and it takes Hermann a second to realize, _ah_. Yes. It was probably a bit forward to refer to ‘friends around the Shatterdome’ and, in doing so, implicitly include this young man he still barely knows. (Especially when Newton, _the utter fool_ , has already made things _wildly_ uncomfortable by signing the note as _Dr. Dads.)_ He hopes Stefan will do him the kindness of interpreting it as a slip of the tongue, rather than him being particularly presumptuous.

Either way, Stefan gives another terse nod, struggling to maintain eye contact, corner of his lip still caught in his teeth. “I— r-regardless, ah, t-thank you kindly, sirs, truly,” he stammers, and then, with a final nod, returns quickly to his desk.

He catches up with Newton in the break room, and manages to strike him cleanly, sharply between the shoulder blades with the head of his cane before he can so much as turn to look at him.

_“Ow!!_ ” Newton yelps, sloshing coffee across the counter. He whips around to meet Hermann’s scowl, wide-eyed with confusion. “Dude!! What the _hell?!”_

_“Doctor Dads,_ _”_ he snarls by way of reply, hoping the embarrassed flush in his cheeks isn’t nearly as bright and hot as it feels. “Are you quite _serious_ , Newton—”

The man at least has the good grace to look sheepish when it hits him what Hermann’s talking about. “Ah. You, uh, saw that, then?” He grins, that disarming one he does when he gets it into his head that maybe, just _maybe,_ he can make himself cute enough to get out of trouble. (It doesn’t work. Newton has _never_ been cute enough to excuse the utter madness he constantly puts Hermann through.) “Listen, I just thought it was, like, a funny goof, and I mean, _obviously_ I was gonna give the kid some brownies, like, have you _seen_ him, he’s so skinny—”

“You are _infuriatingly_ unprofessional,” Hermann snaps, “yet this was, even for _you_ , exceptionally so. One does not simply — declare themselves _parents_ to a _perfect stranger_ _,_ Newton, I should not have to be _explaining that to you—”_

“Oh, come on!!” Newt whines, all but rolling his eyes. “It’s not like _you_ don’t worry about him, too.” Hermann hadn’t mentioned the garbage equation or the internet sleuthing or _especially_ the letter to Newton, but the drift leaves few secrets between them, particularly when the latter incident left him so utterly _fuming_ that he couldn’t focus on keeping the details from bleeding over. To his credit, Newton had been surprisingly tactful (and certainly hadn’t discussed anything with Stefan, _thank God)_ but apparently that hadn’t _entirely_ spared him from having his secret concerns used against him. “You know as well as I do if I _hadn’t_ given him the brownies you would have grumbled about it for weeks.”

“That is besides the point,” he says curtly, in part because, sadly, yes, Newton’s right on the money in that particular sense. (The boy is worryingly thin. Has Hermann ever actually seen him eat?) “You made him _thoroughly_ uncomfortable, Newton.”

That finally gives the other man pause, and Hermann can feel the sympathetic stutter-stop heartbeat in his own chest. “Shit, really?” Newt mumbles, turning his gaze to his own feet, and for a moment Hermann actually feels guilty. Newton is many things, yes, but _intentionally pigheaded_ is decidedly not one of them. The man feels strongly, overwhelmingly, enough to push him into doing rather foolish things at times, but never does he intend to be unkind. “I didn’t think about that. _Fuck,_ that sucks. I— Hermann, I’m sorry, I’ll, I’ll tell him I was just goofing around and apologize—”

“No,” Hermann sighs. “No, don’t. I’m certain that would only make things worse. He’s an anxious lad. Any attention at all seems to set him off. Just… perhaps _consult_ me before any more grand gestures, won’t you.”

“Mm,” Newt hums, absentmindedly, shuffling his feet. “Yeah, yeah. I will. I’m sorry.”

“Enough,” Hermann chides, but it comes out gentle. He glances behind the man and gestures with his head towards the coffee spill. “You best mop that up and get back to the lab. We’ve plenty of work to do.”

Newton blinks, glancing behind him as if just remembering the spill, and then scrambles at once for the paper towels. “Yeah, yeah yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, lots to do. When is there not?”

A grin is slowly spreading back across his face. For now, Hermann decides, that’s enough.

 

\---

 

It’s been a while since Hermann’s been called out of the lab like this. Physics and coding, understandably, require far less field work than most other studies, so he’s mostly left to his sedentary lifestyle. A recent shipment of tech for the updated Jaegers has just arrived, though, and as one of the most senior programmer-engineers remaining on staff, he’s been asked to look everything over before they begin installation. So he clips his way briskly over to the bay, the pathways familiar. (He remembers the war, remembers like it was yesterday; so many years of his life and he still can’t fathom that it’s really over, half-expects the world to come crashing down out from under him at any moment.)

Several crew members are already unloading the heavy crates and bits of machinery, but there’s one figure in particular that, for reasons he can’t place, draws his attention. Though the young woman (girl, rather; she looks exceptionally young) is standing on top of one of the crates and thus towering over the rest of the group, Hermann doubts she’d be taller than a meter and a half at best on the ground. She’s wearing a standard-issue, if worn, PPDC jumpsuit, customized with a number of patches across the arms and back, and she has bright pink hair so thick it appears to be straining the elastic she’s using to keep it tied up. There’s something rather familiar about her, and for the life of him he can’t figure out what it is.

She looks up as he approaches, and fixes him with an unreadable look for a long moment that makes his skin briefly crawl. It’s not an _unpleasant_ expression, by any means, but he can’t shake the feeling that she’s somehow learning more than he’d like her to with a mere glance.

Before he can consider further, though, she’s fixed on a grin and bounced easily down from the crate, closing the distance between them (and handily confirming his earlier theory; he’s not an especially tall man, and isn’t even standing at his full height at the moment, yet the top of her head barely comes to his clavicle). “You’re one of the K-sci dudes, right?” She says, casually — too much so from someone of her position speaking to someone of his, he thinks. “Uh, G-something, both of you. Gotty, I think?”

“ _Doctor_ Gottlieb,” he corrects, offering a handshake that she meets easily. He still can’t get over the distant sense of familiarity, deja vu scratching at the back of his mind. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. You are…?”

The expression passes again, so quickly he barely notices it. “Kay Squarewave,” she smiles. “I don’t do anything fancy ‘round here, just one of the grunts, so makes sense we wouldn’t have been introduced.” She steps back a moment, flicks her gaze up and down (Hermann shifts uncomfortably again, can’t help but feel he’s being _studied)_ , and then hits him with a cheeky look. “You’re one of Saw’s dads.”

He starts at that. “ _Excuse_ — whom?!”

“Sorry, _Stefan,”_ she corrects, rolling her eyes playfully. “I always called him Saw before we joined up with the PPDC. You know, uh, because,” and she taps her own buck teeth, apparently indicating Stefan’s jagged ones. (Hermann’s not sure he appreciates the nickname.) “We’re roomies here, now. He let me have some of the brownies y’all gave him. Say, the Newt didn’t put anything weird in ‘em, did he?”

Hermann’s brow furrows. Kay is… quite a lot at once; he’s not certain which of the points she’s so casually raised he ought to hone in on first. “… _Doctor Geiszler_ is a rather harmless chef,” he finally lands on, emphasizing the proper title. “You’ve nothing to concern yourself with on that front.” He pauses, and then, with some reluctance, adds, “You and Mr. Cypress are… friends, then?”

There’s the look again. He fidgets with the head of his cane despite himself. ( _Where_ has he seen this girl before? It must have been somewhere.) “About as close as anyone _can_ be to friends with Saw,” she replies after a moment, nonchalant. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” he says, too quickly, kicking himself a little over it. His mind keeps looping back to that first conversation with Newton — _I don’t think I’ve ever seen him go out or hang with people_ _,_ he’d said — and he finds himself wondering if Kay is really his only social acquaintance in the Shatterdome. The girl in question tilts her head, just slightly, and Hermann swallows thickly at the sudden feeling of being utterly unravelled. Who the hell _is_ this woman?

“Saw’s shy,” Kay states abruptly, much to Hermann’s surprise. “He doesn’t really know how to deal with people paying attention to him. Always seems to get it in his head that they wouldn’t be doing it unless they want something from him. It’s annoying as hell, but he’s a real neat guy once you get past all that. It’s worth doing. So, uh, be cool with him, yeah, Doc? I know I shouldn’t be saying this, since I think you could probably fire me and all, but I’ll beat you up if you guys are mean to him.” She’s grinning jovially as she says this, but Hermann can’t help but interpret the threat as utterly serious.

Unexpectedly bold, Hermann finds himself straightening to his full height, fixing Kay with a look he normally reserves for telling off Newton, or scaring the other lab techs straight when they begin to take worrisomely after Newton. “I should say the same to you,” he sniffs. “Forgive the presumption, but I can’t help but gather you must be something of a terrible influence on the young man.”

To his surprise, she looks _delighted_ to hear him say it, outright beaming. “Yeah, I try,” she says proudly, and the next thing he knows she’s swooped to his side, offering him an arm. “You wanna look through these shipments, or what? Like, don’t get me wrong, I’m _loving_ just shootin’ the shit here, but you strike me as a man on a schedule.”

“Quite right,” he agrees, and after a moment’s hesitation, takes the proffered arm and allows himself to be led out into the bay. What a bizarre and overwhelming person, this Kay. He’ll have to make a note to avoid her and her whirlwind personality whenever possible. It’s simply too much to deal with on a regular basis, he decides.

(He still can’t shake the feeling that he knows her.)

 

\---

 

About a week after being gifted the brownies, Newton tells him, Stefan had approached him with the handkerchief they’d been wrapped in, carefully cleaned and pressed with the intention of returning it.

“I told him, nah, dude, just keep it,” Newt describes over dinner. (It’s their weekly meal out again, and this time Newton’s brought them to a hot pot place on Tendo’s recommendation.) “Like, it was an old one anyway, I wasn’t expecting anyone to give ‘em back. Pretty sure everyone else just kept theirs. I even saw _Hansen_ using the one I gave him.” He grins at the tangent, but then it slips, Newton suddenly going shy. “So, uh, yeah, I told him he didn’t have to give it back. You don’t think I made it weird again, did I?”

“Not in the least,” Hermann replies honestly, sipping his drink. It’s been a long week already, so he’s elected to treat himself and Newton to local beers with their meal. “I would have done the same if he’d asked me. How did he react?”

“Same as usual,” he sighs, reaching into the pot to retrieve more beef and noodles from the broth. (Hermann reaches across and snatches a few vegetables to add to Newton’s plate as well, ignoring the childish face he pulls.) “You know, stammery and nervous and _very grateful sir thank you so much_ _,_ seriously, you think we can get him to stop calling me _sir?_ I hate it. Makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” he curtly retorts. “Stefan is over a decade younger than you, Newton. You’re thirty-five, now.”

“Yeah, and _you’re_ eighty,” comes the petulant reply, sticking his tongue out at Hermann (classy) before stuffing his cheeks with noodles. “For real, though,” he continues with his mouth full, practically grinning at the expression of disgust that gets out of Hermann. “I wish he’d lighten up some around us. Like, we’re not gonna bite, you know? Kid doesn’t have to fall at our feet whenever we friggin’ walk by.”

“You are a disgusting gremlin of a man.” Newton merely shrugs at that, a _what-can-ya-do_ motion, and continues to add ingredients to the broth to cook. Hermann waits until he’s done, then continues, “if his roommate is to believed, he’s been like that since before he met us. _Shy,_ she called him. Said he expects anyone who deigns to pay attention to him must want something in return.” (He thinks of the photos of Stefan’s parents, thinks of his own father, and has to turn his attention to stirring the hot pot to keep from getting excessively cross.)

“What’d you say her name was again?” Newt inquires. “ _Squarewave?_ Dude, what a wild name. It’s so fuckin’ _weird.”_

“Bold words coming from a Doctor _Newton Geiszler.”_

“That’s German,” he says, dismissively, waving it off. “It’s different. _Squarewave_ isn’t just, like, a non-English name thing. That’s, like, a _robot superhero from the future_ name. It’s dope. She sounds dope. When are you gonna introduce me to her?”

“First of all, I’m of the distinct hope that I shan’t have to interact with her at length again,” Hermann sighs, still unsettled by the memory of that unraveling kind of _look_ the girl kept giving him. “Secondly, she is, shall we say, decidedly not your type.” Displayed quite prominently on Kay’s jumpsuit had been both a general pride flag patch and a specifically lesbian one (recognized thanks to his friendship with Vanessa — perhaps that was why she seemed so familiar; Vanessa certainly would have adored the girl), and Newton has made rather _unfortunate_ passes at similarly uninterested (read: lesbian) women in the past. He should like to avoid a repeat of such incidents.

“And third, perhaps most importantly,” he continues, pausing to retrieve some more freshly cooked items from the broth (Newt stretching across to add no less than three additional strips of meat to his plate, apparently as intent on fattening Hermann up as Hermann is on keeping Newton plump). “The poor girl is half your age. Decidedly inappropriate for you to try and make friends with.”

“Okay, mathematician, half my age would be _seventeen and a half,”_   Newton snaps, looking like he’s bordering on legitimately peeved at the suggestion. “There is _no_ way she was _actually_ that young.”

“They’ve certainly recruited younger in the past,” Hermann defends, but there’s no weight to it, because he’s probably right. Baby-faced as Kay was, he doubts she’s _actually_ still a teenager, given she’s apparently been friends with the twenty-four year old Stefan since even before they were hired on at the PPDC. Stefan doesn’t strike him as the type to regularly and willingly interact socially with a girl seven years his junior.

By the time he works through that train of thought, Newton has apparently been distracted, because through another mouthful of noodles he says, “Hey, so the kid still looks crazy skinny, and apparently he shared those brownies with the roomie, so I’m gonna have to take on the challenge of making him something he’ll actually like enough not to share. What do you think? Sugar cookies, chocolate chip, uh… nah, he’s a snooty-fancy guy, so maybe like, uhh, baklava, or, um, scones… ginger snaps? Ooh, I could go for some of those…”

“Newton,” Hermann interrupts with a sigh, nursing his beer. “You will _not_ bake for the sole purpose of inundating this boy with gifts.”

“Aw, come on—”

“Newton, we _talked_ about this.”

_“Fine,"_   Newton huffs, settling back in his seat and reaching for his own beer. “What do _you_ like, then? You’re both stuffy button-up nerds, so I bet you like the same things. I’ll bake something for you and make enough extra that we can share with Stefan.”

Normally Hermann would roll his eyes and simply let the conversation drop, but it occurs to him suddenly that Newton is entirely, completely _serious_ in wanting to bake for him, which makes something in his chest stutter a little. After a long pause filled only with sips of beer and idle stirring of the hot pot, he finally, quietly, reluctantly confesses, “I wouldn’t mind an attempt at baklava.”

Newton’s eyes flick up to meet his, and he beams ear-to-ear with a truly disarming amount of sincerity. “Baklava next, then,” he grins, reaching over to squeeze Hermann’s arm before returning to his meal.

Hermann elects to convince himself that the warmth he feels is entirely the fault of a hot meal and decent beer. Nothing more.

Nothing more.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Stefan belongs to my boy Jang (see [here](https://plebeiantologist.tumblr.com/post/183998106011/mods-r-asleep-post-ur-team-skull-ocs) for general info and [here](https://plebeiantologist.tumblr.com/tagged/the-sawtooth-tag) for his full character tag), and Kay is proudly mine (general, if slightly outdated, character info [here](https://anonymouspuzzler.tumblr.com/post/163894740088/well-its-been-500-years-but-i-finally-did-like-an)). Thanks so much again for reading!!

Newton really does follow through on his promise-slash-threat to make baklava. It’s not perfect, by any means, but it _is_ surprisingly good, and Hermann perhaps has a _few_ more pieces than is necessarily appropriate or healthy with his afternoon tea. There’s still plenty left over, though, so before work the next day Newton fishes out another old handkerchief and wraps up several pieces for Stefan. They bicker for the better part of an hour over what to put on the note (Hermann _refuses_ to accept another _“Doctor Dads”_ situation), and eventually, compromise on the simple yet amicable _“Enjoy — Doctors G + G”._

A few days later, Hermann returns from lunch to find the handkerchief, washed and pressed and folded, placed on the corner of his desk. Apparently Stefan had realized trying to return it in person would only result in being told to keep it again, so he had cut around the argument and simply left it there instead.

Hermann considers placing it back on Stefan’s desk when he clocks out that evening, but it seems excessively petty. So, instead, he brings it back to the flat with him, and a week later, Newton very deliberately reuses it to wrap up a few fistfuls of snickerdoodles he’d made.

The handkerchief makes it back to Hermann’s desk another week after that. The cookies are gone, though, and there’s no sign he tossed them out or otherwise didn’t at least bring them back to his room, so he and Newton silently count that as a small victory.

It becomes something of a routine after that _—_ Newt whips up some kind of treat (thumbprint cookies, a valiant attempt at scones, a generous slice of apple crumble), they wrap it in the handkerchief alongside a (Hermann-approved) note, and some time later, the washed-and-pressed handkerchief reappears on Hermann’s desk. They don’t have any particular _proof_ that Stefan’s eating the offerings, to be fair, but they also don’t have any proof that he’s _not_ _,_ so all they can really do is persist and hope it’s making a difference, however small.

Kay shows up after about a month or so of this, lingering in the doorway to the lab while most of the staff is out, much to Hermann’s surprise. “Is the Newt around?” She asks when Hermann acknowledges her, glancing about the room with something vaguely resembling suspicion.

_“Doctor Geiszler_ is out signing off on some samples,” he responds curtly. He’s not sure why she insists on referring to him in such a derisively casual manner. “Do you need him for something, by chance?”

“Hell no,” she says, grinning, and bounces over to sit on a desk before Hermann can even think to chastise her for the unprofessional behavior. “Saw likes macarons,” she adds, abrupt.

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“Macarons,” she repeats. “You know, the, uh _—_ ” she mimes pressing her hands together horizontally _—_ “the fancy French cookie sandwich things. He _really_ loves them.”

“I see,” he replies, because honestly, he can’t think of what else to say. _Macarons_ _,_ he thinks. He hopes Newton’s catching the thread from wherever he is.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continues, “he’s been eating what you give him. Not a _lot_ _,_ he pawns most of it off on me, but it’s not ‘cause he doesn’t like it or anything. He just, you know, he doesn’t really know how to deal with it. People aren’t nice to him like this, usually.”

“Hrm.” He’s trying, desperately, to maintain a professional air about him, but every time the conversation turns to Stefan these days, that seems to slip more and more. “And you expect macarons would be a different case?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, but she’s grinning widely. “He _really_ loves ‘em. He’s a picky eater, you know. Rich kid tastes.”

“Unlike yourself, I’m guessing,” he quips, cocking an eyebrow. Kay’s smirk only grows wider.

“You know it. Rowdy, dirty hooligan living off garbage, that’s me.” She swings her legs and jumps off the desk like she’s about to leave, but lingers, and there’s that look again, digging into Hermann. “It’s tough, getting into Saw’s head,” she says suddenly, that unexpected burst of sincerity just like their last conversation. “It’ll take a while before it feels like you’re getting anywhere at all. He just… y’know. He’s evasive. I guess what I’m saying is, thanks for trying so hard with him.”

_Ah._ He… truly, he doesn’t know what he can possibly say to that, so he simply nods and busies himself with some paperwork, good leg bouncing with sudden nervous energy. When he glances up again, Kay’s already left, as quickly and unexpectedly as she arrived.

_Macarons,_ he thinks again, and then he makes a valiant attempt to turn his focus back to his work.

 

\---

 

Macarons, it turns out, aren’t a particularly easy thing to make. Newton muddles his way through several batches with less-than-ideal results, growing increasingly worked-up and frustrated with each one. Hermann resigns himself to cooling down Newton’s temper tantrums, and even more than that, to eating his way through the test batches. (“We’re not giving him this _crap_ _,”_ Newt declares petulantly after one attempt, looking on the verge of tears, and Hermann sighs and sets aside a plate to have with his tea, watching helplessly as their countertop fills up with jars and tupperware full of reject desserts.)

It’s a long, tiring road, they spend a frankly untenable amount on replacement ingredients for the repeat batches, and Hermann’s certain he’s gained weight from eating so many of the failures. (If he didn’t know better, he’d accuse Newton of having planned that all along.) But finally, one fateful Sunday afternoon, Hermann’s work is interrupted by an ecstatic _whoop_ from the kitchen and, shortly after, a hug so violently enthusiastic that Newton nearly topples him from his chair, and he knows the promised day has come.

They pack the handkerchief so full of macarons that they can barely tie it (a mutual agreement — Newt’s so proud of finally getting it right that he wants to absolutely spoil Stefan rotten with the results, and Hermann just can’t excuse keeping yet _more_ desserts in their flat when he’s already been rotting his teeth working through the previous batches), and Newt scribbles a note to pin onto it before Hermann can so much as make a suggestion. _“Heard you liked these — Drs. G + G,”_ it reads, and it’s perhaps a _touch_ more forward than Hermann would like, but not enough for him to raise a fuss about it, so he says nothing.

When he brings the bundle in on Monday, intending to stick to their usual routine of placing it on Stefan’s desk before he arrives for the day, the plan is unexpectedly thwarted by the fact that Stefan is already there. He’s never seen the young man arrive so early — quite the opposite, he’s usually one of the last people in each morning — and certainly not earlier than Hermann, who is regularly the first in the lab by a fairly significant margin.

(The handkerchief full of baked goods suddenly feels very heavy in his free hand. He recalls that conversation with Newton after the first gift of brownies, how he’d chastised the man for making Stefan _thoroughly uncomfortable_ _,_ and wonders idly if he’s been hypocritically doing the same by permitting these repeat offerings.)

He has a few options, he supposes. He could simply go and sit at his desk, keep the bundle hidden, and drop it off on Stefan’s desk when he gets up at some point in the day. He could abandon the idea entirely and stash away the macarons, though that would thoroughly disappoint Newt, who worked so hard to prepare these with the specific intention of gifting them to Stefan. He could even go and find Kay and foist the goodies off on her to deliver, though he nixes that as soon as he thinks of it — doing that might encourage Kay to continue casually approaching him for all manner of conversational nonsense, and he can’t say he’s especially eager to nurture _that_ particular acquaintanceship.

Ultimately, after several uncomfortable moments of pondering in the doorway, he finally elects to simply place the bundle on Stefan’s desk as he walks past. The boy looks up when he does so, startled out of the paperwork he’d been skimming (Hermann can’t help but notice he plants it firmly face-down on the desk when he realizes someone’s there), and so he adds with a forced calm, “Newton insisted I give you these. I do hope you don’t mind.”

(He’d been so rattled by doing this face-to-face that he forgets to correct himself to _Doctor Geiszler_ in referring to Newton. _Blast.)_

The boy blinks and gapes, looking as if he wants to say something but can’t find the words. Instead, he nods and awkwardly takes the bundle, undoing the tie just enough to peek inside, and —

If Hermann had thought the boy looked pallid and gaunt before, he looks absolutely _ghostly_ now, eyes wide and hands actually shaking. His eyes snap up to look at Hermann before he can even ask what’s wrong, and frankly, he thinks he does a valiant job at pretending his stomach hadn’t just sunk like a block of ice. “Kay talked to you,” Stefan chokes out, bordering ever-so-slightly on _accusatory_ _._ It’s the most casually he’s ever spoken to Hermann, and he can’t decide whether to be proud or horrified at that fact.

“...she may have come by at some point,” Hermann answers evasively, hoping against hope that he hasn’t crossed a line (or worse, that Kay hadn’t fed him false information as some sort of elaborate prank. It’s petty, but a part of him instantly thinks to lodge a formal complaint against her if that turns out to be the case). “She, ah… it was more an instance of being talked _to_ _,_ rather than talked _with_ _,_ as I’m sure you familiar with simply by knowing her.”

“It will not happen again,” Stefan says sharply, expression some halfway between absolutely incensed and dreadfully embarrassed. “I cannot apologize enough for her behavior, sir, she — she consistently disregards any sense of propriety and I _begged_ her not to bother you with—“

“It was no trouble,” Hermann lies, sensing that otherwise, Stefan would find some way to spiral out and assume blame for every single instance of Kay’s (occasionally annoying, but admittedly harmless) behavior. “Certainly, the occasional conversation with her is nothing compared to the _years_ I’ve been forced to share a laboratory with Doctor Geiszler.”

“She still should not have bothered you with— with this,” the boy stammers, breaking Hermann’s gaze just a moment to glance down at the bundle. “It— it is already exceptionally generous that you spare me a thought when getting rid of— of general excess, but to make something _specifically—”_

“Nonsense. Newton enjoys a challenge, and so he tried his hand at macarons,” Hermann excuses, hasty, yet clinging to the falsitude of calm. “We had extra, and Miss Squarewave mentioned you liked them, so we saw no reason not to offer, though as always, you’re under no obligation to accept.”

(Lies of omission, but to be fair, not outright falsehoods. All the individual events as he’d described them were true — Newton really did enjoy challenging himself, they really did have extra macarons, and so on — but it _was,_ he supposed, somewhat misleading to avoid mentioning Kay’s intel preceding the self-imposed challenge, to say nothing of their mutual motivations being far less detached than he’d tried to imply.)

Stefan stares down at the handkerchief bundle now, expression slightly less frantic but still tight, guarded. Hermann’s just started to debate if he should just leave the boy be and head to his desk, when he finally says, almost under his breath, “I just don’t understand _why.”_

_He doesn’t really know how to deal with people paying attention to him,_ Kay had said. _Always seems to get it in his head that they wouldn’t be doing it unless they want something from him._

Hermann inhales, slowly, as quietly as possible. Well. He supposes he has to address it one way or another.

“...Your field of expertise makes you a particularly valuable part of this crew, and requires us to work, to an extent, as equals rather than strictly employer and employee,” he explains, as sterile and detached as possible — he suspects even the vaguest mention of personal investment or _you remind me of myself at your age_ would startle the boy like an injured deer. “As such, it behooves us both to ensure you feel welcome here, and that you are both happy with and invested in the projects you’ve been given to work on. And of course, if you should ever feel unhappy or uncomfortable, I should hope you would have the kindness to inform me as such, so we might make adjustments on your behalf.”

To say Stefan looked utterly boggled would be a vast understatement. If Hermann hadn’t known better, he’d have worried he lapsed into German halfway through speaking and left the boy utterly lost. But, no, he’s simply… baffled, it seems, by the mere concept of someone being concerned for his comfort and happiness in the workplace.

He feels the sudden, inexplicable urge to pat the young man reassuringly on the shoulder, or — even more bizarrely — wrap him up in a tight hug and prevent anyone from deprioritizing his happiness again. But he suspects either would be a significant pushing of their current workplace-acquaintance boundaries, so instead he simply says, “Enjoy the macarons, Mr. Cypress,” and clips back to his desk to begin the workday.

The rest of that day passes slowly and quietly, without any additional noteworthy moments, to Hermann’s gratitude. Newton is in and out of the lab for much of it, receiving and sorting new biological samples — present enough, at least, to keep up at least a portion of his usual racket, allowing Hermann to maintain better focus on his work than the days Newton is out of the Shatterdome entirely. They don’t have much opportunity to actually interact, though, with the exception of passing moments through the drift. At one point he’s struck with an overwhelming wave of Newton’s unmitigated pride via the bleed, followed by a fuzzily-shared memory: Newt, walking past Stefan’s desk and glancing over none-too-subtly, discovering that he’d apparently already helped himself to a few of the macarons.

Hermann mentally chides Newton for snooping, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t equally pleased.

That evening, he’s just finishing up the last of his work for the day — Newton had left nearly an hour ago to get a head start on dinner, and most of the assistants had since filtered out as well — when he registers the presence hanging around his desk. Sure enough, Stefan is standing there when he looks up, and for a moment he resigns himself to uselessly looking over some research before he can retire for the night, but then he realizes Stefan… isn’t holding any papers for a change. Rather, he looks all packed up to leave, worn-out backpack hung loosely over a shoulder (bare, he still wears nothing but tank tops; isn’t he getting cold?), yet he stands at tense attention in front of Hermann with that _need-something-but-afraid-to-ask_ expression of his. “Is there something you needed before you go, Mr. Cypress?”

The boy, as ever, seems to flinch at the attention. “I— no, not, not exactly,” he stammers, struggling to hold Hermann’s gaze. He says nothing more for a long moment, confusingly, then, after a sharp inhale— “I just— wanted to say— g-good night and thank you again, Doctor Gottlieb.”

Hermann blinks, stunned and uncomprehending, and then it finally hits him. _Ah._ This, it appears, is Stefan’s best approximation at being _friendly._

“Of course. Good night, Mr. Cypress,” he answers, struggling to find some balance between matching Stefan’s professional tone and inflicting _some_ minor degree of a companionable inflection. “Have a pleasant evening.”

The young man nods sharply, at attention even in this, then turns tail and bolts out the door without another word.

He can feel Newton through the drift-bleed, beaming and just a touch smug. _Don’t_ _,_ he snips back, albeit fonder than intended, and Newton skitters back and out of his head without pressing his luck.

(While his head and the lab alike are quiet, Hermann indulges in just a _touch_ of hypocrisy and peeks at Stefan’s desk while he’s getting up to leave. Sure enough, the bundle of macarons is still there and definitively tucked into — not only had Stefan helped himself, he’d decided not to so much as risk bringing them home for Kay to pilfer. Newton’s quest to bake something he’d like enough not to share had finally been victorious.

...there’s a piece of paper hastily folded and tucked underneath the bundle, which Hermann distantly recognizes as the one Stefan was reading this morning. He turns his eyes away quickly — checking on his own gift to the young man is one thing, to snoop on his private correspondence is quite another — but it’s not quick enough to avoid registering the last few words on the exposed bottom corner.

_Miss you,_ it reads, in heavy scrawl. _—G.)_


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard reminder that Stefan is the very cool creation of the very cool guy Jang (plebeiantologist on tumblr, @jaypg9 on twitter), and you can see a general info post about him [here](https://plebeiantologist.tumblr.com/post/183998106011/mods-r-asleep-post-ur-team-skull-ocs) and Jang's full character tag [here](https://plebeiantologist.tumblr.com/tagged/the-sawtooth-tag). Thanks again for reading!!

The week following sees a frankly startling drop in temperature, the last warm dregs of summer abruptly chased out by an incoming chill. It’s not exactly a _surprise,_ at least in Hermann’s opinion — it’s autumn now, after all, and with how quickly time seems to pass it’ll be winter before they know it — but it is, admittedly,   _abrupt._

Still, he’s not-so-secretly grateful for the change. He sticks to a bare minimum of a button-up and slacks in the workplace as a rule, and keeps a blazer and one of his more breathable sweater-vests in rotation if he can at all help it. In the temperature-controlled lab he’s been comfortable enough, if occasionally a bit stuffy, but on the hottest of summer days he’d sweat like a pig in even the short commute between flat and Shatterdome. (Not that he’d ever admit to the discomfort, because Newton already ribbed at him regularly for sacrificing his comfort and, potentially, his health for an arbitrary and self-imposed standard of dress. “Seriously, dude, you’re gonna get heat stroke,” he’d complained, prodding Hermann childishly in the ribs. “Just wear a t-shirt for _once_ in your life, I promise the Breach isn’t gonna reopen because you didn’t wear a sweater-vest in ninety-degree weather.” But it was the _principle_ of the thing, and so for that alone he would not admit to being less than comfortable and, in doing so, let Newton _win.)_

Now, with temperatures dropping, Hermann eagerly takes the opportunity to turn the tables. “You need a proper coat,” he chides, casting a disdainful eye at Newton’s sorry excuse for a leather jacket as they walk into the Shatterdome. (Normally they go their separate ways on arrival, either because Newton has to track down some samples, or because he’d woken up too late and has to settle for grabbing breakfast from the Shatterdome mess. Today, though, they’d been mutually awoken by a particularly bad nightmare over an hour before either of their alarms, which — once they’d managed to calm each other down to the point of resuming basic functionality — had given them more than enough time to eat and prepare for the day, allowing them to walk to the lab together for a change.)

“This jacket is _fine_ _,”_ Newton petulantly retorts, adjusting the time-worn leather with a sharp tug. “Geez, Hermann, you act like it’s below fuckin’ zero. It’s _September._ It’s _barely_ cool out.”

“And that won’t last long, will it? As soon as we head into winter that sorry thing will be positively insubstantial.”

 _“Positively bleh bluh bleh._ I’m not getting a stupid parka, Hermann.”

“And _I’m_ not going to provide any assistance in thawing you out when you freeze half to death.”

Newton rolls his eyes. “Oh, _yeah_ _,_ like that’s gonna be a real issue. You realize we live together, right? There’s no way in _hell_ I’m gonna freeze in our apartment. I’m pretty sure you tried to turn the heat on in _July,_ you psychopath.”

“Some of us happen not to be human furnaces, Newton.”

“Yeah, it’s all that ice in your veins,” Newt teases, prodding again at his ribs until Hermann drives a sharp elbow into _his._ “Buckets of coolant for your cold, unfeeling robot heart.”

“You are a child.”

“And _you’re_ a geezer.”

They’re both grinning despite the jabs, albeit trying to hide it, and the drift betrays not even the slightest sense of real offense. It’s been a long, _long_ time since they’ve had a legitimately upsetting argument, Hermann notes, their bickering relegated to the kind of lighthearted one-upmanship that brings to mind some of their early letters to each other. For whatever reason, it’s simply the way all Hermann’s closest relationships tend to manifest — with Newton above all, with Vanessa back in their school days, even with the siblings with which he still deigns to keep up contact — unrelenting sarcasm and contests of biting wit, those worth keeping matching him barb for barb.

They reach the lab and settle into their individual workspaces, and for a little while, it’s like things used to be. Hermann at his chalkboard, Newton poring over specimens, the two bickering intermittently as their voices echo through the vast, empty room. It’s… nostalgic, in a sense, and though Hermann can’t say he misses the circumstances — things are objectively better now, with the UN’s begrudging support and assistants to help bear the workload and no immediate threat of apocalypse breathing down their necks — a part of him misses the days when it was just himself and Newton against the world.

When he glances up from his work, Newton, already wrist-deep in a sample, is outright beaming at him, the drift-bleed communicating the thought of _you sap_ combined, overwhelmingly and hypocritically, with a near-perfect mirror of Hermann’s own line of thinking.

(He recalls the morning’s nightmare, of holding Newton’s shuddering body close and feeling their pulses, however frantic, nevertheless nearly perfectly synced. He hopes the drift and Newton alike will do him the kindness of letting that particular observation remain private.)

The lab’s emptiness doesn’t last long, of course, assistants filing in within the hour. Stefan finally walks in barely a minute before the crew’s official start time — for all his anxious propriety, he seems to habitually run late, though he stays well after the other assistants to make up the difference — and, to Hermann’s dumbfounded horror, he’s _still_ wearing only a tank top despite the recent drop in temperature. He’s visibly shivering, too, so it can’t be that he simply runs hot.

“Morning, Stefan!” Newt chirps enthusiastically, sending the boy all but tripping over his own two feet in the attempt to whirl to attention. Hermann throws the other doctor a glare; Newton had significantly bumped up the attempts at friendliness following the macaron-based success, to the point of it being borderline painful to watch, and even Hermann’s most desperate pleading to _be professional with the young man for God’s sake_ hadn’t made an impact.

“Good— good morning, doctors,” Stefan manages to stammer in reply once he’s solidly back on both his feet, catching Hermann’s eye with a curt, stiff nod of greeting. “My, ah, my apologies for running so late, it won’t happen again, I promise—”

“Dude, you’re still here before we asked you to be, it ain’t a thing,” Newton shrugs dismissively. His gaze flicks from the specimen back up to Stefan, and though it’s subtle enough that no one else in the room would notice, Hermann catches the way his grin fades to something resembling legitimate concern. “I, uh, hey, I’m all for committing to the look and all, but aren’t you starting to get cold? Like, we got climate control in here, sure, but the rest of the Shatterdome—”

“I am quite fine,” he says hastily over his shoulder, setting down at his desk. After a second, he seems to remember himself, and adds, “Thank you,” before starting on his work.

Newt exchanges a look with Hermann, and neither says anything, but the drift readily communicates more than they possibly could have in words regardless.

When Stefan drops by Hermann’s desk some hours later, he hears him before he actually sees him — the file folder in his hands rattles subtly with the slight shiver that hasn’t left his body since the morning. As always, he flinches when Hermann actually turns his attention to him, but this time Hermann almost flinches back before he catches himself. The boy is clearly, visibly, _blatantly_ cold, a fine layer of goosebumps running up his arms, jagged teeth chattering ever-so-slightly.

“Mr. Cypress,” he starts, steeling his expression and wondering how on _earth_ he can spin this sudden feeling of protective concern in a way that’s professionally distant. “Forgive me for saying so, but you _do_ look rather cold. It’s not at all an issue if you’d like to run back to your bunk and fetch a sweater or the like.”

The young man fidgets uncomfortably, having greater difficulty maintaining eye contact with Hermann than usual. “Ah— that is, I—” he trails off, biting his lip, picking at one of his bracelets— “I came to the Shatterdome directly from my field school in Hawaii, so I did not have any warmer clothing in my luggage, sir. I, ah. I trust my family will be sending some from our home closer to wintertime.”

(Hermann’s mind clicks rapid-fire through the anxious posture, the apparent lack of clothes — he seems to cycle through the same few tank tops and cargo pants rather regularly — and the damnable memory of the letter, and he reaches an unpleasantly viable conclusion: it’s very probable the Cypresses had already sent more clothing than Stefan had on hand in Hawaii, cold-weather attire included, and it’s likely all suited to their warped, wholly incorrect interpretation of their child.)

“Understandable,” he manages, impressed by how much vitriol he keeps out of his tone. “You have work for me to review, do you not? Give it here.”

Stefan fumbles with the file folder before handing it over, and in that short stretch of time, Hermann’s mind dangerously wanders to the item he’d nearly forgotten was stashed away in his bottom desk drawer. He knows he can’t, _shouldn’t_ fetch it — there’s no possible way he could spin it as purely professional; the gesture would betray far too much of his regrettable sentimentality regarding this young man.

But, at the same time, it would be a decided relief, and even more than that, objectively the right thing to do.

His drift-bond with Newton, for better or worse, has led to a touch of the man’s impulsiveness bleeding over into Hermann’s head. He grabs hold of that inherited trait now, and in one smooth motion, as he’s taking the file folder with one hand, uses the other to yank open the drawer, pull free the forgotten, worn cable-knit sweater, and deposit it in Stefan’s outstretched hand before he can withdraw it.

The young man blinks, looking as perplexed as the day he’d been gifted the macarons, if not more so.

“Until your clothing arrives in the mail,” he explains, dismissive, and _God_ he prays the anxious flush he feels in his cheeks isn’t visible. “I’d prefer not to have to watch you shiver in the corner all day.”

Stefan simply gapes. Hermann would hazard a guess that the slight shudder in his hands isn’t merely the cold anymore. “I can’t possibly—”

“I’ll hear nothing more about it,” he retorts, harsher than intended, and turns his attention sharply to Stefan’s file to indicate the conversation is over.

The young man lingers a long, long moment, making a subtle spike of panic rise in Hermann’s throat. _(This is it,_ he thinks, _the line’s been crossed and I’ve made him so thoroughly, entirely uncomfortable that he’ll rush out of the lab and never dare cross the threshold again.)_ Finally, he sees him nod and turn in his peripheral vision, and he subtly glances up to see Stefan shuffling back to his desk, awkwardly pulling the sweater over his head as he does so.

Bizarrely enough, it seems to fit nearly like a glove. It’s baggy around the torso, what with how rail-thin Stefan is (despite Newton’s best efforts), and his arms are a touch longer than Hermann’s, so perhaps an inch of his wrists are exposed at the ends of the sleeves. But the soft, age-grayed olive knit matches the rest of his attire so perfectly, one would think he’d chosen it himself, rather than had it foisted upon him by a senior coworker sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

(The shivering almost immediately stops, he can’t help but note.)

During his quiet observation, his eye catches Newton’s across the room, expression violently, exuberantly smug. Hermann grimaces, loudly projects the thought-forms for _sod off I don’t want to hear a word of it,_ then buries himself in his work until his face no longer feels like it’s burning.

 

\---

 

Hermann doesn’t need the drift to tell him what the box, kicked into his room by Newton without a single word, is for. He gives the contents a cursory skim to confirm nevertheless, and sure enough, Newton’s dumped a plethora of old clothes in there: soft flannels he hasn’t worn in years, a couple hoodies bearing decal logos for bands Hermann couldn’t name with a gun to his head, a handful of button-ups so garishly patterned that he’s retroactively grateful Newton has never subjected him to them.

He sighs heavily through his nose — not only is Newton calling him out for his earlier moment of sentimentality, it seems he’s eager to raise the stakes that much further in response — but he turns to his closet and dresser regardless.

He sacrifices a few button-ups to the box (far less outlandish than Newton’s contributions), then focuses his attention on finding some trousers to add to the offerings. Nothing Newton owned would fit the man, so he hadn’t even bothered, but Hermann knows he has a few pairs of slacks he’d set aside to be hemmed, which means their current length ought to suit Stefan all right. He adds those, plus a few more sweaters, a couple vests that were too dark for his tastes, and a blazer hidden away at the very back of his closet that, similarly, didn’t suit his coloration. He sets the whole array on his bed, folds it all neatly (along with the items Newton had carelessly tossed in, absolute slob he is), and packs it all in until the box barely has room to shut.

Then he considers. This is, by far, the most forward of their gifts. Baked goods could be easily excused as something they simply had an excess of and _happened_ to foist off on him, but this — this is something they clearly pulled together _specifically_ to give to Stefan. It’s a pushing of boundaries at best, and an outright, unprofessional intrusion at worst. Either way, he’s positive it’s going to leave the young man an anxious, jittery mess.

He clips over to his desk (messy with books and paperwork and forgotten cups of tea; he’d had a bad habit of letting things pile up at his workspace even before the drift, and Newton’s mental influence had exacerbated it immensely), sits down heavily, pulls out some stationary and proceeds to agonize over it for several minutes. There has to be a way, _some_ way, that he can at least lessen the blow of the (decidedly unprofessional) attention. Something to leave Stefan some reasonable doubt that these two grown men, over a decade his senior and also _his employers_ _,_ aren’t spending their evenings fussing and fretting about him _(_ _the way his parents ought to be and aren’t,_ he thinks abruptly, venomously, and he desperately tries to shake that train of thought away).

It must be half an hour later by the time he manages something he can live with — some convoluted explanation about how he and Newton just _happened_ to be getting clothes together to bring to a thrift shop, and might as well let him have first pick, take what you like and get rid of what you don’t, no skin off his teeth. To appease Newton, he sticks to their usual _Drs. G + G_ for the signature, and then, feeling a quick pang of guilt for the hypocrisy of writing all this without Newt’s input, sends an image of it over through the drift-bleed as he’s placing the note on top of the clothes-stack and closing the box up.

“You worry too much,” comes Newton’s unexpectedly audible response, and he glances over his shoulder to find the man leaning against the doorway, casual as anything. He’d showered and changed into loungewear shortly after they’d returned from work — at Hermann’s insistence; Newton had offered to make dinner, and Hermann refused to so much as touch his food if he jumped straight into cooking after being elbow-deep in mystery organs all bloody day — so he’s wearing an old cotton t-shirt so time-worn that the hem is riddled with holes, baggy sweatpants that practically drag the floor, and an oversized knit cardigan that Hermann’s almost certain he pilfered from him at some point or another. (He looks rather comfortable in it, though, so Hermann decides not to demand its return just yet.)

“And _you_ worry too little,” Hermann retorts easily, snatching his cane from where it rests against the nightstand and hoisting himself to his feet. “Between the two of us, I would imagine that would equal out to some measure of propriety.”

Newton practically beams at that, and Hermann finds himself taken by surprise by the sudden rush of warmth and fleeting stutter-stop in his chest. (Was that _his?_ Or Newton’s? Some days, it’s truly impossible to tell.) “I found a new curry recipe,” he says tangentially, nonstop mind likely already three subjects ahead of where they were previous. “I think it tastes fuckin’ baller, which means you’re probably going to hate it.”

“Alas, it’s too late to call for takeaway,” he quips, smirking, “so I suppose I will just have to grin and bear it.” He walks past Newton through the doorway, subconsciously lingering on the way the man’s eyes follow his every move with a spark he dare not try and place, and heads off to the kitchen before his unspoken thoughts risk leaking into conversation.

(The flat had been Hermann’s idea, so many months back, following the night they’d spent curled up against each other, drunk and weary, on Newton’s air mattress in the lab. In words, he’d argued that a flat would be an investment now, given they’d be staying here to continue their research well into the foreseeable future, and their current bunks at the Shatterdome would be better-suited to the new techs and lab assistants soon to be hired. As for finding one _together_ — well, it would be easier, financially, to share the rent, wouldn’t it? But in the drift, his mind had lingered on that one evening lying close, blissfully free of nightmares, and if physical proximity to drift-partners really did ease trauma responses it would be foolish to split apart, wouldn’t it?

“I mean, that tracks,” Newton had agreed, and through their link Hermann could tell he meant in both respects. “I just — y’know, you’re sure you don’t…?” And before Hermann could ask what on earth he was babbling on about trying to ask, the drift-bleed had helpfully supplied Newton’s thoughts of Vanessa, the picture of her and her little boy on the Christmas card Hermann received the previous year, the persistent — and incorrect — gossip that had swirled about their relationship as far back as their first meetings in university.

“Vanessa has her own life back in England,” he’d explained, evasive. New and uncontrolled as their link was back then, he’d had little choice in bleeding over _rumors of our marriage have been greatly exaggerated,_ accompanied with mental images of Vanessa’s most recent girlfriend and a fond decade-old memory of him bonding with her over a mutual lack of heterosexuality.

“Oh,” had been Newton’s only response, voice cracking on the word, and Hermann had been nearly bowled over by the sudden drift-bleed of astonished, ecstatic _relief_ at the revelation. “Well, uh, well — _well_ , um. Yeah! Then, uh, yeah, let’s. Let’s do it — uh, go, go look for a place, I mean. Weekend, maybe?”

“Weekend,” Hermann had agreed, curtly nodding, then returning to his work without another word.

That had been the first, and last, time that they had so much as come close to discussing Hermann’s homosexuality, let alone Newton’s apparent passionate interest in the subject.)


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, this is probably one of my favorite chapters in this entire fic. writing conversations where each character has information the other doesn't and/or a completely different perspective on what the conversation's actually about? that is the Good Stuff and I love writing it and this chapter is chock full of it in so many ways. I hope y'all have fun.
> 
> As always, thanks to my boy plebeiantologist (tumblr) / @jaypg9 (twitter) for the use of his coolest mans Stefan. Enjoy the chapter!!

When it takes until he’s arrived at the Shatterdome, overstuffed box under his arm, to realize there’s a major flaw in his plan, Hermann decides the best thing to do is lay the blame with Newton’s shortsightedness leaching over into his head.

 _Where the bloody hell am I supposed to leave this?_ He realizes abruptly, halfway down a corridor, Newton already split off to fetch coffee and breakfast. The little baked-good bundles were easy enough to set on Stefan’s desk, just out-of-sight enough to not attract undue attention. But this is an entire box’s worth of clothing, large enough that Hermann can barely carry it unaided (it’d be one thing if he could use both hands, but he’d like to see _anyone_ handle this blasted thing gracefully while also walking with a cane). It would be horrendously, blatantly, _embarrassingly_ obvious if he placed it on Stefan’s desk. Even tucking it underneath would be little help, as the poor lad would still have to lug it out in plain sight at the end of the day. And given how poorly Stefan reacts to even the slightest amount of attention, Hermann wants nothing to do with attracting that much more to the young man.

The next most logical option is to leave it at Stefan’s bunk, but that plan is _also_ faced with nothing but obstacles. Hermann has no idea where Stefan’s room is (and why _should_ he, frankly? It would be extremely unprofessional of him to go so far as to track down the boy’s living space, even more so than he’s already made their workplace relationship), and he doesn’t much care for the long, arduous process of inquiring through official channels, which would involve him having to address _why_ he’s looking for Stefan’s bunk. Which would mean having to admit to wanting to deliver him clothes, because he noticed the lad doesn’t have any proper cold-weather wear, because his parents are bastards, and he and Newton have apparently lost their _bloody_ minds and decided, unasked and unwanted, to serve as Stefan’s new unofficial guardians, flying in the face of all propriety…

So, he’s not going to do any of that. Which leaves only one, equally regrettable option remaining, and if he had any choice at all he would refuse to seek it out, but he’s already on-site with the blasted package and his hands are tied.

He inhales heavily, preemptively exhausted, and begins his detour to the bay.

To his relief and consternation in equal parts, Kay is already there when he arrives, the trip made slow and awkward by his unwieldy cargo. She’s leaning back against a crate, casual as anything, chatting idly with a young man with electric-blue hair and tired eyes, who stands a full head taller than her. Despite facing away from Hermann and being otherwise occupied, she seems to register his presence as he enters, and turns to face him before he can have second thoughts and retreat. She excuses herself from her conversation with an amenable pat on the boy’s arm, then rushes to Hermann’s side with a bounce in her step.

“Aw, Doc, you shouldn’t have,” she quips, fluidly snagging the box from under Hermann’s arm just as it risks slipping from his grip. “For me?”

 _“Hardly,”_ he scoffs, only realizing after Kay’s subsequent grin that he’s walked directly into a trap. If the package _had_ been for Kay, one could quite easily conclude that it was work-related, some Jaeger parts or the like to hand off and have installed. Admitting that it’s _not_ for her, while clearly still seeking her out regardless, leaves only one obvious — and regrettably, correct — conclusion.

“First the macarons and now _this?”_ Kay teases, adjusting the box easily in her arms. “You guys are spoiling the kid. What is it, anyway?”

“Bloody well none of your business, is what.” He hopes the flush in his cheeks isn’t as obvious as it feels, because if anyone is going to notice such a thing, it’s probably going to be Kay and her unnerving, unraveling gaze.

“I won’t give it to him unless I know what it is,” she retorts resolutely. “Have to verify that it’s all on the level, you know? Part of the job.”

 _“Job,”_ he repeats, dubious, cocking an eyebrow.

“Emotional support lesbian,” she replies without a hint of irony. Despite the jovial grin that hasn’t left her face, between this and their previous encounters, Hermann concludes that her protectiveness of the boy is anything but a joke.

After several long moments, he relents with a heavy, irritated exhale. “It’s clothes,” he confesses, unable to meet Kay’s eyes. “Just— old items from myself and Newto— _Doctor Geiszler._ It— we were just going to drop them off at a thrift shop, but we noticed Mr. Cypress didn’t seem to have any cold-weather attire as of yet, so—”

 _“Sooo_ you got together some clothes for him, that definitely were _not_ originally intended for the thrift shop,” she concludes. Before he can finish sputtering and come up with a retort, she adds, “It’s okay, Doc, your secret mushy center’s safe with me. I won’t tell him. What do you want me to do with ‘em, anyway?”

He takes a moment to try and compose himself before responding. “Just— deliver them to his bunk, if you would. It seemed a bit much to leave on his desk.”

“You don’t want to embarrass him,” Kay translates, again pulling out the subtext with such ease that it infuriates him. “You’re catching on fast, Doc. At this rate you might _actually_ end up getting through to him, eventually.”

He replies only with a dismissive huff, a complete aversion of his gaze, and subtle fidgeting with his cane. Though Kay’s assurances and support are… affirming, somehow, he’s barely willing to admit as such to himself, let alone have this girl he barely knows pointing it out so plainly. Before he can stew further or make to leave, he’s taken by surprise by a hand pressed warmly against his shoulder, head whirling to find Kay standing right by him, expression shifted from a teasing grin to something oddly _earnest._

“I like you, Doc,” she states plainly. “I really do. You’re good people under it all. Let’s hang out sometime, huh?”

He blinks, taken aback by just how _forward_ the girl continues to be, and before he can catch himself he replies, harsher and quicker than he’d intended, “I’d rather not.”

She’s undeterred, and in fact, seems to smile more widely at his response. “You’re just like Saw. All posturing and trying to keep a distance. I got through to him, I can do the same with you no problem.” And then she has the nerve to _wink_ , hoisting the box against her hip and disappearing into the corridor without another word.

It takes him nearly a full minute before he feels composed enough to venture back to the lab. That girl, he swears, will be the death of him.

\---

Even after months of him working and living at the Shatterdome, Hermann has never run into Stefan anywhere but the lab. It’s more his own fault than anything — he habitually spends nearly the full workday occupied at his desk or chalkboard, leaving only briefly to grab food from the mess and bring it back with him for a working lunch — but still, they’ve never so much as passed by each other in the halls or break room or refectory. Until today, that is; Hermann had been called up to LOCCENT to go over some code (which had been followed by an additional twenty minutes of Tendo insisting on catching up), and he’d elected to drop by the mess on his way back to fetch some much-needed tea, only to discover Stefan doing the same.

He’s wearing Hermann’s old blazer, paired with his usual cargo pants and (regrettably) one of Newton’s garishly patterned button-ups. Questionable fashion sense aside, Hermann’s relieved to see he’s apparently accepted the offerings.

“Mr. Cypress,” he greets in aside as he reaches past to start preparing his tea. The young man jumps at Hermann’s unexpected appearance, nearly upending the creamer, going from vaguely relaxed to anxiously at-attention in a blink. He supposes it’s an inevitable reaction, given the boy certainly wouldn’t have imagined running into Hermann here, but he still finds himself wishing there was a way to ease him off the constant, frantic anxiety. Just _once_ , it would be nice to casually greet the young man, maybe ask how his day is going, without him treating it like a life-or-death situation.

“D-Doctor Gottlieb,” Stefan replies, and if Hermann didn’t know better he’d think the boy was on the verge of _saluting._ (A fuzzy memory surfaces of himself, responding much the same to every appearance of Pentecost in their lab. He bristles, embarrassed, and sends Newton an emphatic _sod off_ until the image dissipates and his mind subtly quiets.) “I, ah— I-I’m sorry, were you looking for me—? I’m quite, ah, terribly sorry, whatever you need I will go right back and—”

“Mr. Cypress, I’m only here for some tea,” he sighs, only barely keeping the full extent of his exhausted annoyance from infecting his tone. “You know, just because _I_ spend all my time in the lab doesn’t mean you should feel obligated to do the same. Apparently, the vast majority of people consider such a lifestyle less-than-healthy.”

“Ah.” Stefan purses his lips and nods, almost too eagerly; Hermann can practically see him filing away the off-the-cuff advice like it’s some sort of sage wisdom. He fidgets with his own cup a moment whilst Hermann is filling his, then adds, “I just— I suppose I like to prioritize my work first and foremost, is all.”

It takes Hermann a moment to respond. This is… the first real _conversation_ the two of them have had, he realizes, any slight deviation from immediate, direct discussion of work in the strict roles of employer and employee. “...certainly, I can relate,” he finally replies. “But you should remember, you’re still quite young. You’ll have many years of work ahead of you, and not very many of youth.”

He can’t quite read the expression that passes over Stefan’s face — there’s a touch of that same confusion from when he’d suggested he deserved to be happy with his work, tinged with something darker, more pained, and for a second Hermann fears he’s finally found and crossed that invisible line — but Stefan turns away with another curt nod before he can pay it much mind. “I suppose that is worth remembering, yes,” the young man murmurs into his mug, picking idly at his sleeve. The latter tic seems to abruptly jog his memory, as his eyes go wide and he adds, “Ah— I, I haven’t thanked you yet, for—”

Hermann waves off the outpouring of gratitude, half because it’s unnecessary, half because he doesn’t trust himself not to become flustered on being reminded of his sentimentality. “We had already gotten the clothes together for the thrift shop,” he lies, “so I saw no reason not to, at least, offer you the option of taking some before we dropped them off.”

“It was very generous of you,” Stefan insists, and Hermann busies himself with his tea to avoid eye contact. “You and your husband both. Please pass along my thanks to him as well.”

Hermann’s halfway through a _think nothing of it_ when it hits him what Stefan’s said, and the words die in his throat. “...Beg pardon,” he finally manages to choke out, one too-long pause later.

He can only imagine what his expression must look like, because Stefan’s goes hideously pale on sight of it, a dawning horror in his eyes. “I,” he chokes. “I’m— d-dreadfully sorry, of course— i-it’s completely understandable if you prefer your privacy in such—”

“Doctor Geiszler and I are not married,” he says tightly, head swimming with a complicated mix of emotions. _Embarrassment,_ above all, combined with bafflement and alarm — there had been rumors regarding himself and Newton, certainly, but never before had they escalated so far as _marriage_ — a touch of rightful outrage, and a healthy dose of panic, both for the realization Newton might be catching his line of thinking via drift _and_ the concern that Stefan might mistake his offense at the situation for offense towards _him_ , specifically.

The latter proves a perfectly reasonable worry, because Stefan shifts in an instant from dawning horror to absolute heart-stop _panic_ , all but lurching away from Hermann with a visible tremor. _“I’m so sorry._ I— I didn’t— Kay _insisted,_ and, and the notes, and I s-shouldn’t have assumed—”

Hermann doesn’t quite catch his grimace in time — of course, of _course_ Kay would be at the heart of this much-escalated gossip — but he does manage to swallow down his own spiral and school his tone before interrupting, “It’s not at all your fault. This— such baseless rumors have been circulating since long before your employment. One could hardly— that is, it would hardly be fair to expect you to separate legitimate information from gossip in a new workplace. Truly, the, ah, the blame lies with those spreading the misinformation rather than yourself.”

Stefan shakes his head so violently, it’s a small wonder his glasses don’t go flying off. “It was— it was wrong of me to assume irregardless,” he insists. “I should have known right away you were not—” He trails off abruptly, and there’s that dark, pained expression again for a fleeting moment— “I have— I have kept you long enough, sir, please excuse me—”

He’s gone before Hermann can even register as such, leaving his half-prepared cup of tea behind.

(Of all the ways for him to bungle a potential — what? Workplace acquaintanceship? Mentee? Whatever it is, it’s clearly been thoroughly trashed now, and though he’d feared this inevitable moment for some time now, he never thought it would happen quite like this.)

At a loss for what else to do, he grabs Stefan’s abandoned mug and brings it back with him. He can leave it in the break room for Stefan to find later, he supposes, as he doubts bringing it back to him in person would do the lad’s decimated nerves much good. (...not to mention, detouring into the break room gives him an extra few moments to compose himself before he’s back in public view.)

The “relax and regain composure” plan is thwarted nearly the instant he enters the room, as someone slams into him full force from behind, leading him to stumble and very nearly drop both cups of tea with an indignant squawk. “Would you bloody well watch where you’re—”

 _“Dude_ _,”_ Newton hisses, because of _course_ it’s him. He grabs Hermann tightly by the arms and whirls him around to face him, and the annoyance instantly fades to alarm, because Newton looks positively _frantic_ . “Hermann. Oh my god, Hermann, we have a huge, _huge_ fucking problem here.”

Hermann’s heart drops into his stomach, beating so hard he can feel the pulse all the way up to his ears. Newt must have caught on to the situation with Stefan through the drift-bleed, then. “I would hardly call it a _huge problem_ _,”_ he deflects, voice hushed. It’s not _ideal,_ certainly, not with Stefan so thoroughly embarrassed about the whole thing — and just when they’d started to make progress with him, to boot — but he doesn’t know if he’d go so far as match Newton’s apparent panic. “But, ah, yes. I suppose it’s worth talking through, isn’t it.”

“I just don’t know how this _happened,_ _”_ Newton whimpers, releasing Hermann in favor of anxiously fidgeting with his tie, his ring, bracelets, shirtsleeves, anything within reach. Hermann takes the opportunity to set the cups of tea aside and steer Newton to the back corner of the break room; he’d rather the assistants not see their employer in such a state, and he _definitely_ wants no risk of anyone eavesdropping. “I mean, I— I didn’t think we were giving off those kinda vibes at all. Did— did _you_ think we were giving off those vibes? Please, Hermann, for once I am _begging_ you to be brutally real with me, you know you’re better at reading this shit than I am—”

“I _absolutely_ did not think we— _gave off vibes,_ to use your turn of phrase,” he huffs in reply. “All things considered, we’ve been absolutely proper in our interactions and behavior. People just… misconstrue common decency, it seems.”

“Yeah, people including _Stefan_ first and foremost, apparently.” Newton releases a shaky breath and runs his hands back roughly through his sloppy hair, which makes Hermann’s heart drop that much more. (Is he _really_ so anxious about — well, about being mistaken for _involved?_ Hermann had been alarmed by the extent of the gossip, certainly, but he can’t say he’d been quite so upset by the _content,_ the mere concept of Newton and himself being — and he cuts that thought process off right there because Newton is in a panic and now is _not_ the time.) _“Fuck_ , man, I just — what do we do here?? I mean, let him down easy, _obviously,_ but I just can’t fucking get how it came to this. Like, I know you got in a huff about it, but I thought the _Doctor Dads_ thing made it pretty _fucking_ clear what our intentions were with this whole thing—”

...Now, wait. It _could_ just be Newton’s tendency to run several steps ahead in a conversation, but suddenly the things he’s saying hold decidedly _less_ relevance to the topic of their mistaken relationship. “Hold on,” he says evenly, the change in tone visibly enough to pull Newton out of his panic spiral with a goggle-eyed look. “What are you talking about?”

Newton blinks. “...what are _you_ talking about?”

“...I asked you first.”

Newton straightens out his posture, and Hermann watches him shift fully from panic to confusion and, from there, to looking deeply abashed. “Okay. Don’t be mad,” he begins, which instantaneously fills Hermann with dread. “Seriously, _don’t_ be mad, because already you’re making that one face and — okay, look. Stefan was out of the lab and I went by his desk ‘cause I was curious about the recent seismographs—”

Hermann suddenly gets an inkling of where this might be going, and his stomach drops for an entirely different reason. “Oh, _Newton,_ you didn’t. Please, tell me this isn’t what I suspect it is.”

Newton’s silent for a long moment, avoiding eye contact. “...and then I saw this letter on his desk—”

_“Newton—!!”_

“I didn’t _mean_ to read it!!” He squeaks, throwing his hands up defensively. “I didn’t, really! And, like, I barely even _did,_ I just happened to look at what was there in view on the desk—”

“That is an _incredible_ invasion of the boy’s privacy, Newton, I shouldn’t even have to _explain_ this to you—”

“But listen!!” Newt interrupts, lunging forward and grabbing Hermann tightly by the shoulders, expression edging manic again. “Listen, you’re gonna be glad I _did_ peek at it, because holy _shit_ Hermann we have a problem.”

“I see no scenario where I would be _glad_ of your blatant disregard for common courtesy—”

“ _Hermann._ He was writing a fucking _love letter,_ Hermann. For _us.”_

That, he will admit, _does_ momentarily shock him out of being infuriated. “...what?”

“Or— one of us, at least, probably you,” Newton elaborates, gesturing nonchalantly at Hermann like someone falling in love with him is a foregone conclusion. “I only got a couple lines but it was some _really_ sappy stuff, borderline inappropriate for the workplace, even, and plain as anything there was a _Dearest G_ at the top. I don’t know how it happened, Hermann, like — he’s a fucking _kid_ and I didn’t think _either_ of us were sending that kind of a message with—”

“Ah,” Hermann says without thinking, several things simultaneously clicking into place. Well, on the plus side, he can now calm Newton down and thoroughly reassure him that all is not as terrible as it appears. (The downside, of course, is that doing so will expose him as an enormous hypocrite.)

For the moment, though, Newton is anything _but_ calm, boggling at Hermann in disbelief. “Dude, is that _seriously_ all you’ve got to say?! Because I am _actually freaked out,_ here!! I mean, I know it’s stupid but I was starting to kind of get _into_ acting like he was our kid; thought we could like, mentor him and invite him over for Hanukkah and all that kind of shit, but now he’s apparently _horny for it_ and I don’t know what to—”

“Newton, that wasn’t for us,” Hermann finally interrupts through a heavy sigh, cutting the other man off mid-sentence. “That was for… well, _another_ ‘G’, apparently.”

There’s a long silence after that, Newton no longer in the middle of a violent panic, but instead staring at him with wide, prying eyes. (Hermann can’t even bring himself to look directly at him.) “...how do _you_ know?” Newt finally asks, accusatory.

Hermann clears his throat uselessly, and continues to closely study the wall behind Newton’s head rather than meet his gaze. “...I may have seen a different letter several weeks ago,” he finally grumbles, reluctant. “ _‘Miss you, G,’_ I believe it was signed. It seems likely Stefan’s simply responding to… whoever that was, rather than attempting to make advances on one of us.”

In his peripheral, he sees Newton’s jaw drop. “You _ass!”_ He screeches, shoving Hermann roughly, though there’s a laugh in his tone. “You fucking _hypocrite,_ I can’t believe you tried to call me out when you—”

“My seeing it was _entirely_ accidental,” he retorts, “and I _stopped_ reading the moment I realized what it was, quite unlike you.”

 _“Jackass,”_ Newton cackles. Hermann finds him insistently crowding into his space, trying to force him to meet his eyes; he responds by insistently angling his head away from wherever Newton goes. After a bit he tires of his makeshift game, shoves Hermann again and steps back with another laugh. “Oh, my god. Okay, jokes aside though, that, uh, that’s a relief. I can’t deal with our fucking kid having a crush on us, dude. _Either_ of us.”

“He’s _not_ our—” Hermann starts, but cuts himself off with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Nothing he does seems to deter Newton from paternal fixation on the boy (and, given how disarmingly honest he was just now, confessing to his very legitimate investment in the young man, Hermann can’t bring himself to try and dissuade him again).

He’s snapped back out of his thoughts by a mug being placed into his hand — Newton had fetched his tea from the countertop, it appears, and he gives Hermann a disarming grin when he finally dares meet his eyes again. “So, uh. I guess that’s that for my thing. What were _you_ talking about, then? ‘Cause apparently it wasn’t this.”

Hermann very nearly drops his cup again. “Nothing,” he lies, evasive and entirely unconvincing. He tries to turn on his heel and clip away before Newton can catch on, adding, “I really need to be heading back to work—”

Newton catches his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. _Blast._ “Oh, come _on_ _,_ Hermann, I just bared my whole _soul_ to you. Whatever your thing was, there is no _way_ it was worse than ‘thought employee-slash-surrogate-son had a big horny crush on my lab partner’. _Soooo,_ spill.”

Hermann purses his lips, resolute — he does _not_ want to talk about this, with _anyone,_ but particularly not with Newton. Any measure of his calm is unraveling, though, and the drift latches onto that hungrily, magnifying his memories of Stefan’s dawning horror and, in this moment, his thoughts of Newton’s calloused hand closed around his wrist, the slight dig of the little skull ring on his pinky, the wider symbolism of rings and—

Newton’s eyes go wide. Hermann, already feeling himself go pink, yanks his wrist free of Newton’s grasp.

And then, _then_ _,_ the man has the nerve to _burst into giggles._

“It’s not funny,” Hermann growls.

“It’s not,” Newton agrees, but quick as he’s said it he’s doubled over laughing again. “No, it is, it really _is_ _,_ holy shit— _ohh,_ the poor kid, I can’t believe he—” Whatever else he’d plan to say, it’s lost to the absolute giggle-fit he’s been wrapped up in, all but collapsing to the floor.

“The poor boy was _humiliated,_ Newton,” he reminds him to no avail. When neither Newton’s laughter nor Hermann’s hot-faced blush subside, he grumbles out, “I’m leaving,” and attempts to make for the door again.

Once again, Newton stops him with a catch of his wrist. “I’m sorry,” he says, audibly stifling the last of his giggles. “I’m sorry, dude, I just— holy shit, okay, can you blame the poor kid? I mean, you see the way we—”

“I _don’t_ blame him, but I can and will blame _you,_ _”_ Hermann snaps back. “He wouldn’t have been so willing to believe such — such _clearly unsubstantiated rumors_ if you hadn’t kept at your _Doctor Dads_ nonsense.”

“Oh, my god.” Newt’s still beaming despite quieting his laughter, to Hermann’s incredible annoyance. “Dude, _chill_ _,_ it’s really not a big deal. Seriously, I think it’s hilarious. You should have let him keep believing we really _are_ married, now _that_ would have been funny.”

Hermann grimaces, and impossibly, feels his face grow that much hotter. _“Hardly._ Unlike _you_ _,_ Newton, I don’t particularly care to make some grand joke of the very _concept_ of us—”

And he cuts himself off barely in the nick of time, before he says something well and truly _Newton-level stupid_ , but the man in question has already gone wide-eyed at the unspoken. _Great._ Fantastic. This is, truly, the worst possible turn his day could have taken.

“I— I didn’t mean it like that,” Newton stammers, suddenly shy, jovial grin slipped from his face. “I mean it, I don’t— I don’t think it’s a joke. _Would_ be a joke. You know, uh—”

They’re circling something, he realizes. Dangerously so, the warm and terrifying unknown which they’ve been orbiting since their drift, anxiously evading the pull of gravity dragging them towards it. In this moment, all it would take is one of them letting go, slipping up even a fraction, to send them both hurtling towards that point of no return.

For a second he longs for it, painfully so, with every fiber of his being, but the next he lets cowardice grip him again. “I really _do_ have to get back to work,” he says, firm but distantly apologetic, and he doesn’t even wait for a response before he clips out of the room and lets the moment crumble.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! New chapters will be posted once a week on Mondays, ideally right up until the fic is complete. In the meantime you can catch me @BigPuzz on twitter or at anonymouspuzzler on tumblr!


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